


Darkling, I Listen

by sonnenstrahl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Mental Instability, Moral Ambiguity, My First Work in This Fandom, Reader needs a million hugs, Reader-Insert, Sarcasm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Tragedy/Comedy, What Was I Thinking?, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnenstrahl/pseuds/sonnenstrahl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are not a rebel, nor are you a sympathizer of the First Order, though you have been involved in the conflict between both factions since you have memory. Life has mercilessly pushed you from one side of the line to the other, yet you refuse to be a mindless pawn defined in terms of black and white. Light, darkness…, they dance around each other.</p><p>Your involvement with the Resistance was a matter of convenience. They took you under their wing when you were still young and naïve in deference to your father, and used your aptitudes to tilt the balance in their favour. When a cruel cosmic joke makes you a prisoner of war at the hands of the First Order, working for them will be a matter of survival in the purest sense of the word.</p><p>Lost and conflicted, you unintentionally develop a strange connection with none other than Kylo Ren, the nature of which is hard to discern. He seems to be both the poison and the cure to your madness, helplessly attracted to each other like a moths to a flame ― and it’s only a matter of time that one of you gets lost in the flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I think relevant to mention that English is not my mother tongue (I'm Spanish). Although I have only written stories in English for many years now and I usually re-read and re-write everything several times, there might still be some misspellings and other mistakes.
> 
> This is the first fanfic I have published online in a long time, the first I publish in this website, the first I write in second person POV, and the first I have ever written for the Star Wars fandom. Too many "firsts". It's not until quite recently that I have become more interested on this universe, to be honest, and there are many terms and pieces of information that escape my knowledge. The Wookieepedia is my best friend while writing this, but I'm by no means an expert in this fandom (so, please, bear with me). Hope you like it :)
> 
>  
> 
> "Once in the darkness  
> Of bad memories  
> You stepped into a trap
> 
> But the spring loaded bar  
> Didn't break your neck  
> And you remained there  
> Waiting  
> For the better time."  
> Discard your Fear, Riverside

A loud sob breaks the silence, echoing pathetically within the dimly lit room before vanishing on the stale air. Your head instinctively turns towards the source, if only because it is the first human sound you have heard in who knows how many hours, to face the leaden-eyed woman that is quivering in the opposite corner.  _No_ , you mentally correct yourself. She is but a terrified girl dressed up in a soldier uniform, too innocent to be in this sort of situation, too young to die…, too unfortunate. It strikes you as tragically comical that you cannot remember her name at such a decisive moment or that no words of comfort seem fit to leave your lips to offer a short-lived moment of sympathy. Truth is you are just as helplessly frightened as she is, perhaps even more.

The nondescript grey walls of the holding cell appear to be slowly closing on you as time passes, a dreadful combination of claustrophobia, mental exhaustion and uncertainty gripping your chest almost painfully. Out of the dozen prisoners that originally inhabited the room, only you two remain. The rest of your companions were taken away, one by one, to be interrogated and most likely tortured ― almost certainly executed. A thick, pessimistic silence had fallen like a blanket upon the cell since they dragged away the last of them several hours ago. The drying bloodstains by the door, vibrantly red in the dull monochromatic space, are a silent testimony of what had transpired. Unable to tear your gaze away from the rust-coloured puddle, you become vaguely aware that your hands are shaking in panic and irrational fury at this train of thought, so tired and sick of sitting there feeling like cattle waiting to be led to the slaughterhouse.

Nearly two days without water or food and you can’t even think clearly anymore. This captivity is driving you crazy, not knowing whether you will ever see the stars again. That is probably what they are expecting, to weaken your resolve as much as possible so that you break down all the sooner. You almost feel sorry picturing their disappointment when they find out just how foolishly obstinate you are.  _Almost_.

Perhaps this entire situation would result more bearable if the awareness that  _you should not be there_  stopped crawling around the recesses of your subconscious. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong company.

How have you ended in this mess, prisoner of war aboard one of the First Order vessels? Well, blame it on alcohol. Or maybe you can even blame it on Poe Dameron. It wasn’t technically his fault ― you had willingly jumped headfirst into that stupid dare, after all ― but it had been  _his_  idea that you joined an actual mission for once, and it was his damned drunken eloquence that convinced you of accepting the supposedly simple and innocent challenge in the first place. There would be a supply run the following day and they needed an interpreter for negotiations. Quick, easy and apparently not dangerous; just bargain a bit, pick the provisions and return to the base unharmed. _Yeah, sure. Why not?_  You take a mental note never to allow yourself to be dragged to a canteen by the charismatic starfighter pilot anytime soon, though you might not escape this place alive anyway.

The nature of your involvement with the Resistance is complicated, to say the least. Theoretically speaking, you are  _not_  a rebel ― in fact, you avoid using that term on yourself as much as possible and barely refrain from straightaway correcting anyone that calls you so ― and yet you can hardly remember anything about your life before becoming a shadow in the background of the organization. That was before the echoes of war reached your small, neutral planet. There was a time when your life was simple and peaceful, existing at the margin of the conflict that threatened to tear the galaxy asunder. War had always been an abstract concept in your then young and guileless mind, something which true meaning escaped your understanding because it seemed so foreign and distant…, until it mercilessly snatched everything that mattered from your very hands. It’s no wonder you wish to have nothing to do with violence of this magnitude after what happened, and it is enormously frustrating how fate seems determined on throwing you into the midst of that chaos again and again. After losing count of how many times they have called you a traitor and a coward for your behaviour, the judgement of others no longer deprives you of sleep at night ― your main duty is towards yourself, however selfish it sounds. Once the tempest inside you quietens, perhaps the pieces of the puzzle will finally fall together and your place on this cosmic chessboard will be revealed.

It is not as if you are so utterly insolent as to feel ungrateful towards those who provided you with shelter, food and an occupation when you had nowhere to go and no definite purpose in life. Nonetheless, it was not as if you had sought to become part of the organization either. At the end of the day, the Resistance is using you ― your abilities ― as much as you have been using them in order to survive. They attempted numerous times to convince you of becoming a full-fledged member of the rebellion exploiting all sort of arguments, from your lack of honour to how you should respect the memory of your parents, but those efforts merely succeeded on pushing you further into the tumultuous void inside your head.

How will they react to the news about your abduction? Some will be relieved, that much is expected. Some of the high ranks will probably lament your loss as a professional ― others will celebrate not having to hear your sarcastic remarks during meetings anymore. But _, will someone actually miss you?_  The obvious response fills you with misery. Yes, there is a handful of people who have become something akin to friends and will probably mourn your demise, briefly, before returning to their obligations. Death is something familiar to them, being fighters and pilots that put their lives in jeopardy and lose comrades in every skirmish… but you are not like them. You have never been particularly strong, or brave, and there is nothing remotely heroic in you.

You don’t want to die feeling it was all meaningless. There is so much you still have to do. You want to be loved, and remembered. You want to  _live_.

The distressed girl whimpers, breaking your reverie. For a moment you fear she is going to black out again, but the cause of her fretfulness is another one entirely.

There are heavy footsteps approaching in the darkness. The ominous sound reverberates against the metal walls, seemingly everywhere among the shadows, like the ringing of a forbidding bell announcing that your time is up. Your fellow prisoner apparently has thought the same, scrambling like possessed by the terror to curl up in the furthest corner of the cell. The footfalls come to a sudden halt on the corridor outside, a string of muffled voices reaching your ears before the door opens. She starts crying inconsolably, scratching at the walls like a frightened animal in a cage.

“ _N-no, please… Mercy… Please… Nononononono―_ ”

In that fleeting second before two Stormtroopers enter the room, an odd numbness takes over your senses. The crippling fear disappears, the cold, the anger… as if someone has thrown a bucket of water to wash everything, leaving your head vacant and strangely serene. Just as though the girl’s powerful reaction has triggered something within yourself, and that something understands that weeping, pleading or wallowing on the wretchedness of the situation will get you nowhere. For some reason, you think of your mother.

The white masks of the Stormtroopers move from the hysterical girl to your defiant glare, then from you to her again, before one of them grips your upper arm and brusquely pulls you onto unsteady feet. Without a word, you are shoved out of the cell. The heel of your tattered shoe grazes the edge of the bloody puddle and you wince, observing how your steps leave ill-omened red smudges on the flooring at your wake. The lights lining the dark corridors blind you momentarily, if only because of the change from those restrictive grey walls to a more open space. There are more troopers waiting outside with their guns drawn; probably a precaution after one of the other prisoners decided that, if he was going to die, he might as well take someone with him. He had been a big man, built like a bear and strong like one as well, and managed to knock down one of the Stormtroopers, steal his blaster and kill the other one before someone in a chrome suit appeared with a whole squadron on tow. The bloodstains on the floor were his.

“Don’t try anything,” says the trooper leading the group.

Even if you were foolish enough as to make an attempt for a blaster ― which you are not, especially after witnessing that episode ―, your aim is so appallingly awful it is not worth the risk. Even if you miraculously managed to escape your captors, then what? This is a First Order starship in the middle of space and, given your luck, it is more probable that you will turn the corner and run straight into an officer than find a way to escape. Even if, because of the opportune intervention of some benevolent divinity with nothing better to do than observe your misadventures, you somehow overpower the troopers, get away and find the hangar, you will kill yourself trying to fly one of those TIE fighters.

In other words ― no, you better not try anything. At least, not anything they would expect you to do, like recklessly fight your way out. Surely you will come up with some ridiculously elaborate but effective strategy. You always do. There is a reason the rebellion leaders consider you somewhat of a valuable asset despite the numerous inconveniences of having you around during important meetings; your brain has always been your greatest weapon, and the only one you have needed. The problem is you really cannot fathom what is about to happen; whether they will merely interrogate you and realize your uselessness, kill you on the spot, torture you for days in unimaginable ways, or send you home with an apology note and a basket of fresh fruit. Unlikely, but a girl can hope.

You are so engrossed on the possible outcomes and trying to memorize all the twists and turns that your face nearly collides with the breastplate of the Stormtrooper walking ahead when he abruptly stops in front of another door.

Supressing a shiver, you let them shove you inside. At first sight, there is nothing extraordinary about this new room safe for the contraption occupying the very centre, some sort of elevated chair packed with restraints and awe-inspiring mechanisms. However, the air is permeated with an unmistakable pungent and coppery scent.  _Blood_. This has to be the interrogation room.

Your earlier resolution about refraining to fight wavers dangerously when the troopers lead you to the seat. The circumstances have not changed in the last five minutes ― you still have no possibilities whatsoever of escaping ―, but the mere idea of being tied to that monstrous thing rekindle the embers of panic. By the time they have secured your arms and legs to the cold metal, you are trembling again. Then all the Stormtroopers stomp out of the room, leaving you miserably alone and gripped by trepidation.

You struggle hard to loosen the restraints, although it proves to be as futile as you anticipated. It only serves to tire you out and reinforce the feeling of being trapped. Soon that prevailing metallic odour is making you light-headed, the mere thought of  _whose_  blood has been spilt there bringing tears to your eyes.

 _No ― focus_. Time is running out.

Out of nowhere, the sound of the door opening again at your back dispels the tangle of chaotic thoughts. You hear the heavy, tell-tale footsteps of the troopers followed by those of a different person, someone whose boots hit the floor in angry, assertive strides. Heart pounding against your ribcage, you compel yourself to keep your eyes closed and not acknowledge the presence of the newcomers as something unsettling. Maybe if you give the impression of being unaffected by their antics, you will have the upper hand in this whole situation ― but, oh, are you terrified.

When the echo of the footfalls fades on the air, you nervously gather every ounce of courage left in your body and pry your eyes open. A towering figure dressed in black obscures the light in the room, eliciting a cold shiver that courses down your spine in sheer consternation. This is definitely not among the multiple scenarios you had expected to unfold ― not that mask, not that man. You remember seeing him in pictures during a classified meeting you were not even supposed to attend in the first place; he had been standing amidst the battlefield, surrounded by a dark cloud of destruction and smoke, brandishing a mighty red lightsaber with lethal ferocity. They said he had executed all the citizens of that village for supporting the Resistance, from children to elders, without mercy. The impression had been so strong that, later that night, you had questioned Dameron about who that daunting man was over a much needed glass of whiskey, and you had not liked what you heard.

 Kylo Ren.

You don’t realize you have said his name out loud, your voice a hoarse broken whisper, until he brusquely leans forward and you draw a sharp intake of breath. The air hitches in your throat when that mask appears right in front of your face, looming menacingly over your shivering form. He is  _tall_. The polished metal that decorates the upper portion of the mask is dented in places, roughly scrapped in silent testimony of war, which only makes it all the more intimidating. His eyes are concealed behind a narrow black screen, but you can definitely  _feel_  them raking through your face, appraising you. In an impulse of sheer foolishness, you stare back at him in what you hope is just the right amount of defiance to assert your ― false ― confidence but not enough as to make him desire rip you to pieces on the spot. It’s like looking into an abyss and feeling powerless as the abyss looks back at you holding all the dark secrets of the universe. You don’t blink, you don’t even dare breathe for what feels like an eternity, until a grave, distorted voice cuts through the silence.

“My patience is wearing thin, rebel.”

_Don’t call me that._

“I suggest you share the location of the Resistance headquarters willingly, because we have wasted too much time with your pitiful friends.”

 _You killed them all_.

“SPEAK.”

The livid shout makes you jump, feeling tears welling up on the corner of your eyes once more. You force yourself to swallow your fear and respond. “T-This is a mistake. I’m  _not_  a rebel. And I know absolutely nothing about the headquarters,” you pause when your voice wavers due to the dryness of your throat, a humourless laugh leaving your mouth. “I honestly have no idea where they are. Never been there, I’m not important enough.”

_Nicely done, (y/n), now he’s got a perfect idea of how expendable you are. At least it will be over soon._

“That,” drawls the dark voice of Kylo Ren, leaning closer to you again. His right hand is raised, hovering above your temple,” is for me to decide. Your stubbornness leaves me no choice.”

Those words make you shudder, trying futilely to distance yourself from him within the tight restraints. You have a strong suspicion about what is coming, and let’s say that having a sadistic bastard use the Force to mess with your brain is right at the top of things you least desire to experience.  _Great_ , and now he will know you have called him a sadistic bastard, too. The leather texture of his gloved fingers brush your forehead and you barely have a second to prepare before it happens, knocking the air out of your lungs with a startled gasp. The pressure is overwhelming, pushing against the fragile walls of your mind with relentless determination. You can feel something breaking, like cracks spreading on a glass surface.

He hums, the distortion converting it into a pleased rumble. “Your mind is strong.”

A pause.

“But I am stronger.”

His fingers press against your skull and the invisible barrier shatters in a thousand pieces, unable to withstand the pressure. Suddenly, he is  _everywhere_. Hot tears roll down your cheeks at the brusque intrusion. There is a presence inside your head, unwelcome, too powerful, brushing against your consciousness and carelessly rummaging through a kaleidoscope of memories. It feels wrongly intimate, as if there is nothing you could hide from him ― and you know there isn’t. Somehow, you try to fight back the invisible intruder, pushing against him with all your might until he seemingly grows annoyed and makes it _hurt_. You cry out, hands clawing at the chair. Like incorporeal fingers flipping through the pages of a photo album, a myriad pictures pass through your head in dizzying succession: the blurry, smiling face of your mother; your hometown burning, infernal flames licking at the night sky; your father’s warm hand enclosing yours, how odd it felt, as your starship left a devastated planet behind; the proud expression on his face when he found you sneaking into his library, stating your interest on learning languages to follow his steps, and the first book he gave you; friends, colleagues, people who never liked you… All of that is quickly dismissed as he looks for more concrete details about your role within the Resistance ― boring diplomatic meetings, sitting in front of a screen for hours attempting to translate endless messages, mountains of books, fervently exposing your thoughts and daring even correct your superiors when an impulsive idea came to mind, drinking with the pilots before they left on a mission, that one time you were brought to General Leia Organa herself to discuss a particularly risky strategy. For one instant, his resolve wavers before he aggressively flips through the rest.

Just as unexpectedly as he entered your barriers, he disappears. You collapse against the metallic chair, panting, feeling mortifyingly empty and violated. Your cheeks are moist with tears, body trembling all over, and you are positively  _furious_.

Kylo Ren takes a step back and regards you in contemplative silence for several moments, as if reflecting on what he just saw. “You are not one of them,” he echoes your words. “But you have certainly done an outstanding job on assisting the Resistance… have you not? You lied to me.”

_WHAT?_

“I was… I  _am_  good at what I do, and they remunerated me. It was a job,” you reply, mentally exhausted and more convinced each passing second that he is going to kill you independently of your answers. “And I did  _not_  lie.”

His fist hits the contraption above your head, making you flinch. “There is _nothing_ you can hide from me. Your name results... familiar. You lied when you said you were no one important ― but, it turns out, you were the little clever craftsman behind some of the greatest failures the First Order has experienced in the last months.”

That revelation honestly dumbfounds you. No one had thought to mention it before when asking for your opinion about an strategy. You had thought they just liked having a second opinion from someone not directly involved in the conflict. “Oh.”

Silence.

“L-look… I’m just a linguist, maybe even a glorified programmer. But that’s all. I attended some meetings as interpreter and the higher-ups listened to my suggestions sometimes. I… I had no idea about that last bit. I truly am not important for their ranks, that I know.”

He is intently looking at you again, you can tell, pondering your words.

After another lengthy pause, he emits an unintelligible growl and abruptly leans back. “You’re an annoying little bug, linguist,” he declares. You are vaguely aware that he is giving some order to the Stormtroopers standing by the door, but you feel so drained ― and you are so painfully certain that your blood is about to join that of your fellow prisoners ― that it doesn’t matter anymore. There is some movement in the room, but your eyes have already closed on their own, a last tear escaping to tread the wet path imprinted down your cheek. You are so tired.

Then that deep, rumbling voice brushes your mind again. “Take her away, for the time being ― and dispose of the other girl.”


	2. Breathe Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your life has been spared in exchange of becoming part of the First Order but, at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who have read the first chapter and left kudos! You are awesome! :)  
> It feels great to be sharing fanfics again and see they are well-received.  
> I actually found a couple misspellings in the first chapter, so there might be some more in this one - I apologize in advance.
> 
>  
> 
> "This is the furthest I will go.  
> Never the same again.  
> The vile path calling me,  
> the day I ran from life again.
> 
> If I win this one time,  
> it will still be the end of me.  
> My belief that nothing ends well.  
> This is the end for me."  
> Fjara, Sólstafir (translated)

Darkness welcomes you into consciousness. Even though you have the weird sensation of having slept for too long, your body feels heavy with weariness and there is a dreadful headache threatening to split your skull in twain. When the most recent memories escape your grasp like elusive smoke, you frown against the pillow, utterly disorientated. A disjointed string of notions cross your hazy mind ― everything hurts, and you’re lying in a bed; there are definitely sheets wrapped around your body and some sort of mattress underneath, but this is not your cot back in the base because you cannot hear the soft snores of the girls who shared your dormitory nor the ever-present hustle and rustle of people running from one place to another. Your fingers tentatively appreciate the unfamiliar smoothness of these bedsheets, confirming your suspicions.

Even the air smells differently. It smells like nothing, to be honest; just… clean.

_Where the hell are you?_

Disconcerted when the only apparent answer your mind provides is a deafening silence, all traces of somnolence quickly dissipate. It takes every ounce of strength you can conjure to compel your body to move and sit up on the bed. Once your head ceases its dramatic spinning and your heavy-lidded eyes adjust to the lack of illumination, you begin to discern the shadows and shapes surrounding you. The mattress in which you are lying is not especially ample, yet it seemingly occupies the better part of the rectangular-shaped room, pushed against a corner. The fourth wall is cut short, leading to some adjacent room ― from where a dim, ghastly light seeps into the bedroom. There is also a door to your left, which logic postulates might lead to a bathroom, and a bedside table where someone left a glass filled with a translucent liquid you only hope is water.

 _Please, be water_.

You waste no time in emptying its contents in long, greedy gulps. You hadn’t even realized just how impossibly thirsty you were until this moment, but the effects are immediate. Even though the unrelenting pounding on your temples merely recedes a bit, there are definitely faint shreds of coherent thoughts attempting to plough through the haze inside your head.

 _Bathroom_ , a voice whispers somewhere amongst the fog. _More water_.

You shudder at feeling the cold floor beneath your bare feet and that foreign clean-scented air nipping at your exposed skin. What might have occurred to the rest of your clothes is not important at the moment as you clumsily stand up, clad only in your underwear. The weakened condition of your limbs truly alarms you for a moment, using the wall as support as you hobble towards that solitary door and hastily push it open.

The lightbulbs flicker on. It _is_ a bathroom, after all.

You catch a glimpse of your pallid and haggard reflection on the mirror, cringing inwardly. Moved only by the desperation with which your body pleads for recovery, you completely disregard the rest of facilities before throwing yourself onto the washbasin as if it was an oasis in the middle of the desert. Between avid mouthfuls, you let the cold water trickle down your face, relishing on the refreshing sensation with a satisfied sigh. It’s uncertain how much time you spend clinging to the edge of the sink, but when the mist clouding your memories finally dispels it’s something abrupt and nearly disturbing.

The first thing that you remember is sheer crushing _horror_ , and the black figure it accompanied.

 _Looking into the abyss_.

You unconsciously take a step back, collapsing onto the cold tiled-floor without any support.

Everything rushes back to you with sharp clarity, though the remembrances feel almost foreign, distant, as if they occurred a long time ago ― going to that planet to negotiate about a provision shipment; the trader resulting an informer for the enemy, having betrayed your position; the First Order soldiers swooping down on you out of nowhere, being knocked out; waking up trapped in a cell, the endless hours of captivity; a pool of red blood on a grey floor; a girl crying for mercy; the interrogation room…; _him_. The sudden flood of conflicting emotions is so overwhelming that for a long while you can barely breathe, just hysterically sob curled up beneath the sink until the tide calms down.

 _No wonder my head hurts_.

Disbelief twists in the pit of your stomach. The last thing you remember thinking before losing consciousness was accepting you were going to die. It seemed obvious he would kill you. You were… He said…

 _I’m… I’m alive_.

Your brain evokes the tear-streaked visage of that young girl as she cowered in the holding cell, pleading for clemency, and you cannot help but feel remorseful. Guilty, even. Because she is dead, and you are not. It’s utterly devastating. You should be dead, too. Then a sudden a sense of relief washes over everything. Like breathing for the first time, because it’s true ― you are _alive_. And it’s mind-numbing, too confusing. The implications of having been spared like this bode no good, remembrances of the conversation in the interrogation room resonating in your throbbing head, and yet at this moment it doesn’t even matter. Nothing else matters but the fact that you are here, breathing, feeling, thinking.

A loud, alleviated sob leaves your chapped lips. _Alive, alive, alive_.

Forcing yourself to stand up is easier now that you’re possessed with this renovated will to… well, live, and find out what is supposed to happen henceforth. Accustomed to the general lack of silence and privacy in the Resistance base where you previously resided, everything feels uncannily peaceful as you step out of the bathroom and hesitantly walk through the dormitory. Everything feels different, to be honest, as if you looked at your surroundings through the candid eyes of a new-born baby getting to know the world for the first time. The contiguous chamber is some sort of humble living room, very similar in design to the rest of the apartment ― everything is either white, black or grey. There is a small sofa, a table with two chairs, and a somewhat basic kitchenette in the far corner. A pristine light pours inside through a window, enclosed by gauzy white curtains.

Something catches your eye on the table’s surface. A folded sheet of paper partially covering what looks like a typical cafeteria tray, a jug filled with water and a glass, and beside it two white pills. You ignore the rest, your stomach growling like a ravenous wampa at the mere sight of the plastic tray, even if the food looks rather unappetizing and definitely cold. Disregarding the fork and knife as unnecessary, in a matter of seconds you have shovelled half of its contents into your mouth with inhuman voraciousness. You almost start crying anew ― it tastes like the best food you have ever had, probably because you haven’t eaten anything in over fifty hours… but right now you don’t care. It’s so _wonderful_.

When your emaciated body protests at the harshness with which you are feeding it, you decide to calm down a little and take your time to consume the rest of the food is in a much more composed manner. What’s more, you actually take a seat on one of the chairs and retrieve the forgotten fork before eyeing the scribbled words on the sheet of paper with mild trepidation.

“ _Please, report to the command post as soon as this message is read. You will find the mandatory uniform in your bedroom closet. Further instructions will be given by your superior._

_PS. The pills are for your head._ ”

Truth be told, that doesn’t throw much light into what is happening. Doubtfully, you take one of the small round pills and examine it. Were they to murder you, it’s unlikely they would poison you in such a manner, especially after taking the trouble of sparing your life earlier for some reason you still cannot comprehend. However, you cannot help feeling suspicious. Just how twisted can they be? Anyhow, you would like to get rid of this dreadful headache more than anything in the world, so you fill the glass almost to the brim and swallow the pills without overthinking it.

Leaning back on the chair, you take a deep breath and recapitulate the situation. _So…_ Those you had labelled as “the enemy” just yesterday, who imprisoned and essentially tortured you want you to work for the First Order now? Turn sides? Not as if you truly belonged to the Resistance, to begin with, but it feels downright wrong to betray your acquaintances at the other side of the frontline, those who are actually fighting against these people. And yet, you cannot help the boiling resentment towards your former employers after discovering how many secrets they had kept in the darkness. Be that as it may, you are not going back any time soon. The rebels can legitimately call you a traitor now if they wanted to ― and they most certainly will if they learn about your survival. Do the General even know your group is dead? Word must have reached them by now about the ambuscade, so they will have undoubtedly deduced as much. No prisoners have ever escaped, and none have been pardoned or received any compassion as far as your knowledge goes.

Except _you_ , it seems.

The tray already emptied and your head full of questions, you drag your feet back to the bedroom, noticing the built-in closet for the first time on the wall opposite to the bathroom door. There are two uniforms on hangers, not only one like the note suggested, though you presume the second one must conveniently serve as replacement. Opening and closing the drawers you also find several sets of plain black undergarments, socks, and a pair of combat boots at the back of the wardrobe.

_This monotonous colour scheme is going to get too old, too soon._

You grimace, looking down at yourself. Sweaty and filthy, for lack of more explicit words, you smell like an animal more than like a proper human being and you don’t need a mirror to know you undoubtedly look like one as well. You remember your reflection earlier, a dishevelled spectral version of yourself. This is definitely not the first impression you want to offer. They have been waiting for hours as you recovered from Kylo Ren’s lovely mental defilement, so they might as well wait twenty more minutes without complaining. This considered, you randomly pick up one of the uniforms and a towel and scurry into the bathroom to take a shower. By the time you turn the spray of water off, your skin has been scrubbed a bright pink and the headache has almost completely vanished thanks to whatever medicine they gave you. The bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror blurred with condensation, but you don’t want to waste any more time ― and feel a bit apprehensive of facing your reflection again ― and end up blindly combing your hair using your fingers, twisting the still damp tresses into a messy bun.

The clothes are astoundingly comfortable, the undershirt very soft and supple, hugging your frame like a second skin. Then the pants, almost like thick leggings, topped with a belt, and those sturdy lace-up boots. Everything is black. Now, if only you had a tag around your neck that said “ _property of the First Order_ ”, the look would be complete. The thought passes by you as joke, but the weight of those words linger at the back of your mind like a ghost.

Sighing, you walk towards the entrance and hesitate before peeking your head outside.

“Uh… hello?”

The lone Stormtrooper standing by the door almost drops his weapon in surprise at seeing you emerge out of nowhere. The trooper clears his throat to recover from the scare, surely glad that there is no one else around, and grumbles something about how late it is ― mid-afternoon, apparently ―, asking whether you are prepared to go. His bad-mannered display of annoyance aggravates you, especially when recalling the troopers that manhandled you yesterday. In fact, you have to bit the inside of your cheek to maintain your composure as he hurriedly and silently guides you across an eerie maze of black and red passages. You’ve got the feeling this is not the same starship where you were held captive. As soon as you reach what you presume is the so-called command post, he turns on his heels and disappears.

_Wow, rude, buckethead._

Your suspicions are confirmed by the soft amber sunlight seeps from the row of huge windows on the upper level, which seem to look out to the surface of whatever planet this place is stationed. The place is _huge_ , divided in several work areas with both normal tables and big computer consoles, all swarming with uniformed people. You stand there long enough for those occupying the nearest spots to start looking oddly at you and whisper among themselves. Nervously, you cross your arms over your chest in a petty defence mechanism. What are you supposed to do? Is there someone from human resources you should discuss with about your last-minute incorporation to their merry organization? The message suggested that someone would be waiting for you here, but perhaps you had slept for too long…

Suddenly, you feel someone tapping your shoulder and turn around, taking a startled step backwards when meeting the kind blue eyes of a tall bearded man right in front of your face.

“Our newest acquisition, I presume,” he says, holding out a hand. “I’m Daclan Zarander, Chief Linguist in charge of the operations here at the Starkiller Base. Please, call me Daclan and we’ll get along just fine.”

His facial features are somewhat sharp in contrast with his gaze, giving off a solemn but somehow trustworthy air to his general appearance. Still, you cannot avoid a spark of wariness in the presence of such open display of affability, after all what you have been through in the last hours. Worry lines and small wrinkles adorn his expression here and there, along with the silvery strands gaining ground on his otherwise dark hair, but the man emanates some sort of joviality that results hard to ignore. His black uniform is completed with a single-breasted jacket that suggests a noteworthy rank in accordance to his introduction.

That name rings a bell in the depths of your mind. You are almost convinced there is a dusty xenolinguistics book written by one Professor Zarander from the University of Charmath somewhere amongst your extensive library, probably amongst those you inherited from your father… but thinking about all the poor books you had to leave behind makes you sadder than anything.

You timidly shake his hand, muttering your name in exchange. “Hum… yeah, that would be me. Sorry I made you wait.”

Given your previous experiences and the fact that you happened to be on the receiving end of their attacks, you had expected anyone working for the First Order to be unfriendly, permanently morose or something similar and, well, _evil_. But the man chuckles a good-natured “Oh, don’t fret,” placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you away from the entrance. “I was informed of the peculiar circumstances of your arrival at the base.” The displeased edge his voice acquires implies he does not approve of your kidnapping. At least you have something in common. He halts when reaching the secluded area on the ground level you guess will be your workplace from now onwards ― it looks like an office more than any other visible corner of the room, papers and books scattered everywhere. There is only another person, a young man with thick-rimmed glasses and headphones sitting in front of one of the computers, furiously typing away. “But let us forget about unpleasant matters for now and see what you are capable of, hm?”

You questioningly look at the sleek datapad he is holding out for you to take.

“I guess you are still feeling worn-out, but I hope you’re up to a little brainwork. It’s not like they handed us your résumé, so I had to prepare samples of the different languages we usually come across to have an idea of the extent of your knowledge,” he explains, heaving an aggravated sigh. “As you have probably noticed, we are lacking personnel in this department as of late. One of my boys deserted a couple of months ago and the other one got caught in a… accident of sorts with the officers shortly after. The droids take care of the most routine transmissions, but the General insists everything confidential and potentially important passes through human hands just in case.” He gestures to all the empty chairs, flashing that trademark paternal smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable and do your best. I will be around if you need to ask something.”

“Got it,” you gulp.

It takes a while to find a comfortable position to work in the chair you have chosen, but once you do everything goes smoothly. The first few messages are virtually a joke, just varying dialects and alphabets used in Basic. Your mind soon enters a familiar trance where everything and everyone around you disappears, in which there only exists the text in front of you, and your fingers start typing line after line of translation almost automatically. You only pause for one or two seconds when the language suddenly changes, or when stumbling over some complex phrase. The linguistic difficulty increases as you scroll down, until you start encountering languages you actually don’t know fluently enough as to provide an accurate interpretation ― but you try anyway, leaving blank spaces. Those you cannot even read, you leave behind. And then, you reach the last one and cease typing altogether. Dumbfounded, you blink at the brief sample of weird-looking symbols, a whimsical ensemble of spirals, lines and circles. It almost seems to have leaked into the ensemble of texts by accident.

You frown, eyeing the undecipherable and yet oddly familiar code with a knot of mixed feelings twisting in your gut before rising your gaze to find Daclan leaning on a nearby desk, gazing at you with thinly veiled amusement. Awkwardly, you realize your legs have become numb from remaining in the same position for too long, and your eyes dart to look around, noticing the place is nearly deserted and devoid of natural light. “Just… how much time did I spend working on these?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Around three hours, give or take. Most of the staff left for dinner a while ago, but I didn’t want to break your concentration.”

Your stomach emits a mortifying growl at the mere mention of dinner. “I-I, hum… sorry.”

“Don’t mind me, really, just go. You could probably use some well-deserved food and rest,” Daclan chuckles. “I’ll make a wild guess here and suppose you haven’t been exactly given you a tour around the base… The cafeteria is hard to miss, but I’ll tell a trooper to show you the way.” He takes the datapad from your hands and scrolls through the texts absent-mindedly. “I will read through this tonight, and hopefully tomorrow we will have some actual work for you.”

You never thought you would be feeling excitement today; or anytime soon, for that matter; but you feel a small timid smile forming on your lips. “I appreciate it, sir.”

The perspective of doing something useful fills you with determination ― if you don’t meditate too much about the nature of the task at hand, of course. And no, you don’t want to think at the moment. About anything. It feels like mental exhaustion is already catching up with you as you shadow yet another taciturn Stormtrooper around the labyrinthine corridors. He genuinely surprises you by speaking up to say he will be waiting outside to return you to your room afterwards.

“Oh. Uh… Thanks.”

 _Eloquence at its best, ladies and gentlemen_. It’s the most you can demand of your poor overloaded brain today, it seems.

The mess hall is ― thankfully ― almost empty by the time you make your glorious and awkward entrance. It’s nothing extraordinary, truth be told, long grey tables arranged in rows and a serving space on the furthest wall. Ignoring the snooping stares and whispers that rise from the other employees in the room, you pick the first appetizing item of food you see on the counter and take a seat by yourself. The perspective of being seen as an antisocial sourpuss on your first day is not favourable, but you honestly couldn’t care less. You only want to eat in peace and leave.

Nevertheless, you have been absentmindedly munching on your sandwich for barely three minutes when someone literally hops onto the bench opposite you. A beaming blonde girl with shoulder-length hair, wearing yet another black uniform.

“Hi,” she exclaims.

It takes you a moment to recover from the overwhelming enthusiasm she radiates almost naturally. “… Hi?”

“Oh, sorry if I startled you,” she continues with an apologetic smile that looks sincere enough. “You are the new girl, right? Everyone is talking about your arrival at the base yesterday. I saw you back at the command post earlier, talking with that old man Zarander. Oh, the name’s Thea, by the way ― I work for the General.”

_The General?_

“Oh. General Hux?”

“The one and only,” she laughs rather humourlessly, drumming her fingers on the table. Even though you have yet to personally meet the man, he has a rather infamous reputation among the Resistance. “I must warn you… he is not very happy with your presence here.”

“He… _doesn’t_ want me here?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say much, but, as far as I know, it probably has something to do with how Ren deliberately disregarded his orders or something. Same old song, you’ll get used to their quarrels in no time.” She shrugs. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up. You seem nice, for a rebel.”

“I’m not… Ugh, it doesn’t matter anymore,” you sigh and rub the back of your neck, pushing the remnants of the sandwich aside. After receiving those pieces of information, you are not hungry anymore, just weary and overflowing with confusing thoughts all over again. “Thanks for the warning, Thea.”

She shots you a contrite look, putting a hand over her mouth. “Stars, I’m so sorry! You must be feeling so lost right now, with everything that’s happened, and here I am jumping you without any consideration… I will leave you alone now.”

“Nah, don’t worry. It’s fine,” you exhale once more. “It just has been a _really_ long day, that’s all.”

 _The longest day ever_ , even if you have actually just been awake for the better part of the afternoon.

“I understand, we’ll talk at any other time. Feel free to ask me if you need to know anything about this place, okay?”

“Sure. Thank you,” you offer her a polite smile, waving goodbye with the most heartfelt gesture you can manage. “I’ll see you around.”

The moment she jogs away, your shoulders shag with the invisible weight pushing on them. You quickly dispose of the leftovers on a trashcan and go looking for the Stormtrooper outside, sullenly walking behind him all the way back to your quarters. The lights are out, everything consumed in a melancholy dimness that only feels adequate.

You have begun crying before you even reach the bedroom, as if the frail resolve that prevented your emotions from taking over has crumbled without warning now that there’s no one around to see your mind break down under the pressure. Discarded black clothes cover the floor as you crawl between the bedsheets and bitterly cry yourself to sleep, thinking about all the people you have let down by surviving, those who believe you are dead, and those who aren’t in this world anymore to witness your unavoidable plunge into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one didn't exactly turned out as I expected. There are certain parts I have re-written several times and still don't seem to flow naturally, but I just wanted to finish it and keep going.  
> Hopefully, the following chapters won't be as dense. I find myself slipping into some sort of stream of consciousness sometimes and describing everything the characters feels and thinks, and I seriously don't know whether it's enjoyable to read or not. Expect some Kylo soon (if he doesn't physically appear in the third chapter, he wiill most likely be in the fourth). I have a vague plotline planned out with important events, but I sort of improvise on the spur of the moment, haha.
> 
> PS. Can anyone spot the shameless Undertale reference? I just couldn't resist.


	3. Restless and Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you slowly ease into your new life at the Starkiller Base, you cannot dispel the feeling that something wrong will happen as soon as you lower your guard. Things are going better than expected but, no matter how many times you try to run away from trouble, it seems keen on throwing itself at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! :)  
> So... It took me a while to upload this one because I met a nasty mental block and had to backtrack, re-read the previous chapters and improve some parts (nothing too drastic, though, mostly some dialogues) before re-writing the whole thing. However, I ended up writing a very long document with two completely different scenarios and had to divide it into two smaller chapters. I plan on uploading the second part as soon as possible, because that's when the fun starts.
> 
>  
> 
> "Regrets collect like old friends  
> Here to relive your darkest moments  
> I can see no way, I can see no way  
> And all of the ghouls come out to play
> 
> And every demon wants his pound of flesh  
> But I like to keep some things to myself  
> I like to keep my issues drawn  
> It's always darkest before the dawn."  
> Shake It Out, Florence + The Machine

“Good morning, guys.”

“Good morning, (y/n).”

Nearly two weeks since your forced integration into the Starkiller Base workforce and you have unexpectedly fallen into an easy and gratifying routine. Against all odds, the impact of that miserable first night when the gravity of the situation overwhelmed you did not extend to the following morning and in no time everything experimented a swift improvement. Despite the lingering apprehension hanging over your head like a sword ready to fall, you actually found yourself enjoying some aspects of this new life.

From sunrise to sunset, you work on whatever assignments Daclan delegates to you on a desk you have already reclaimed as yours. It’s not much, but it feels like your own little fortress. To say that the man was pleased with the translation samples you gave him would be a huge understatement, given the enthusiasm with which he welcomed you into the team. He seemed particularly impressed upon hearing you were mostly self-taught, dreading he could not have you as student on his old days as professor. Nevertheless, you soon understood that his happiness had less to do with your linguistic skills and more with the fact that he finally had an extra pair of hands to help with the mounting pile of work. The department really is in need of more personnel. Zekk, the young man that had been too engrossed on attending to an urgent alien transmission as to introduce himself the previous day, turned out to be quite the ideal company while working, as well as a potential friend. He rarely says anything unless spoken to, mostly because he spends long hours with those gigantic headphones on, being in charge of interpreting audio files whereas you attend to written messages. Once he discarded his initial bashfulness he was quite affable, witty and awkwardly thoughtful, quick to offer his assistance whenever you come across a complicated phrase.

New documents arrive throughout the day without respite, so you always have your hands full. Sometimes you don’t know in which language you are thinking anymore when returning to your quarters at night.

Thea reappeared in your life sooner than expected. The vivacious girl worked somewhere on the upper level of the command post usually frequented by officers, where you saw her excitedly waving at you upon your arrival on the second morning. Curiously and unfortunately enough, you also happened to catch your first glimpse of General Hux that morning ― or, to be more precise, of his distinctive copper hair ―, though he actually crossed paths with you on the subsequent days. The blonde girl had not lie in the slightest about Hux’s disapproval of your presence in the base, it seemed. If looks could kill, you would have died and come back to life just so that his cold glare could send you back to the grave at least a dozen times.

She kindly guided your steps through those first challenging days, dropping by your domains at lunchtime and dinner time to drag you to the mess hall. Usually, she had to wait until you added the last touches to the translation at hand, not a devotee of leaving anything half done. The first few times she impatiently hopped around your table chanting about how boring and responsible you were, then poked you on the arm until you gave up typing altogether. It does not give the impression of upsetting her as much now that she seems to have hit it off with Zekk, anyway. She just sits on the edge of his desk and throws random questions about work, where does he come from and his interests until the poor guy looks about to faint out of sheer nervousness and you have to come to the rescue.

Also, she took it upon herself to show you the ropes of how everything worked in the base and helped you stock your small kitchen with basic stuff, which could be acquired in a small store adjacent to the cafeteria. Just enough to have a quick breakfast in the mornings and grab a random snack on lazy days, as you were running low on money until you received the pay check at the end of the month. And that is putting it mildly, as you literally own _nothing_ here but the tattered garments you arrived in. You will buy some real food as soon as possible, and clothes, and books if you find any. The perspective of restoring your lost library is what look forward the most nowadays, followed closely by Thea’s invitation to a girls’ night at her apartment tonight, considering tomorrow you don’t have to work.

On the whole, you are quite content with how things have gone so far ― when you are not having a mental breakdown, that is. Even though you have relatively come to terms with your circumstances and people have been nothing short of welcoming, bearing in mind the nature of your gilded cage, you still have trouble sleeping at night and remorseful thoughts about what you are doing assault your mind every now and then. Looking on the bright side, the episodes in which you have to excuse yourself and run to the nearest closet whenever an inconvenient panic attack hits you are becoming few and far between.

Focusing on work actually helps, performing mechanical tasks and filling your head with boring information that is mostly forgotten at the end of the day. Your current responsibilities are quite similar to the ones you carried out beforehand, at least on the linguistic aspect, but a tad more demanding. In addition to all the official statement regarding negotiations and other diplomatic matters that require proofreading and translations before being sent or handed over to the pertinent officers, the First Order intercepts a ridiculous amount of alien communications. Daclan says the General is determined to dismantle the Resistance by any means necessary, believing they might be camouflaging their messages in other languages or even among useless data, as apparently they seldom receive rebel communications these days.

This fills you with exasperation, having some first-hand knowledge about how the leaders of the Resistance communicate their plans to other rebel cells and thus knowing he is wasting time ― _your_ time ― firing shots in the dark. It’s not like you will voice those thoughts anytime soon, especially when the information you hold about the now opposite faction is the detail that unnerves you the most about your current situation. Instead of questioning you about these matters as you would expect, they have you reading and writing all day in your comfy little desk, wondering anxiously whether something bad will happen as soon as you lower your guard. Such uncertainty is enough to drive anyone crazy.

Sometimes you are gripped by the irrational fear that they will suddenly decide they made a mistake and dispose of you. To be honest, for the better part of your first week in the base you had expected to see the Master of the Knights of Ren following you everywhere like an ominous shadows, or that he would barge in your quarters in the middle of the night proclaiming to have had second thoughts and then slice you in two with his lightsaber. Although the fearsome man has yet to cross your path again since the incident of the interrogation room, you flinch wherever your gaze catches something black nearby and his mask and distorted voice haunt your nightmares more often than not.

_How much did he actually see in your mind? Obviously, not everything._

_And why would he spare you like that? Part of you was terrified to ask._

Precisely the reason your eyes are lined with dark shadows this joyful morning. Those questions, those dreams, his everlasting presence in your head.

Daclan replies to your half-hearted greeting, lifting his gaze from whatever document he is reading on his datapad long enough to offer you a small tired smile of his own. “High spirits today, hm? There is work waiting on your mail.”

You groan loudly. “I swear these files reproduce so fast, one day they’re going to take over and devour us all.”

The older man lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Just take care of them and they will behave, (y/n). Send then to me when you’re finished.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Morning,” your co-worker murmurs when you walk past his desk in order to get to yours. It looks as if he has been typing on the computer for a long while already, exactly where you had last seen him last night ― _does he even sleep?_ ―, headphones on and brown hair dishevelled with stress.

“Hey, Zekk. How are those Gacerian transmissions going? Something interesting for once?” you greet him, stifling a yawn. He merely shrugs, mouth crooking in a half-smile, which is one of his usual responses. You are becoming quite adept at reading body language just by interpreting his gestures. “Heh, I expected as much. Wish you luck with those.”

Exhaling a long breath, you plump down on your comfortable office chair and look at the people coming and going in the background. Back on the throne of your little kingdom. The general atmosphere in the command post seems abnormally tranquil this morning, almost lethargic. Probably because it’s the last workday of the month and everyone is running on fumes. Most of the employees in the base work non-stop all week, enjoying a free afternoon here and there if luck’s on their side. However, the third and the last Benduday of each month were considered general days off except for the soldiers and some of the officers. To be honest, you don’t know whether you are more thrilled about tonight’s plans or about the simple idea of being free to sleep all day tomorrow if you so desired.

_The sooner you start working, the sooner you will finish._

You retrieve one of the many datapads you have at your disposal from one of the desk’s drawers and turn it on, quickly looking over the list of documents that appear on the screen. Nothing too especial, at first sight. Humming a nameless tune, you open the usual programs to check the spelling and begin typing. Your working pace is admittedly slow today, taking your sweet time to complete an endless series of dull translations. By the time you are done with half of the workload, several hours later, nothing remotely interesting has passed through your hands. Some of the messages are actually rather stupid, even some personal correspondence without any context whatsoever caught in the First Order network. Those are eliminated right away. _Such a damn waste of time and effort_. You would like nothing better than to print them and paper the General’s entire quarters with them ― _then_ he would have a legitimate reason to glare daggers at you.

Sighing, you lazily open the next document and do a double take upon seeing the black script that fills the screen. A string of peculiar unintelligible swirls and lines that the software cannot identity, the same ones you faced on that aptitude test the first day. Eyeing them warily, your lips press into a thin line.

_This…_

_What should you do?_

It was a surprise to see them the first time, but stumbling upon them again is no mere coincide.

“Daclan?” you call. The man looks at you with momentary confusion, interrupted in the middle of a reading. “What am I supposed to do with… this?” He stands up with a huff and approaches your desk, looking at the datapad you extend for him to take with a frown.

“Why do you have that? Oh, sorry, I must have sent it with the rest by mistake. You can just ignore it, I already have the original file stored.”

Fighting your better judgement that is screaming for you to forget about it and stop messing with things that could worsen your already delicate situation, you frown at the symbols and eventually utter. “What is it, exactly? It was with the texts you gave me in the test, too.”

He pulls at his greying beard in pensive aggravation. “Well…, the easy answer would be those are the General’s worst nightmare. But, technically speaking, it’s some kind of dialect or code we cannot decipher. The guys in Communications intercept one of those at least once a month, but not even the protocol droids can get a coherent message out of them. I thought, maybe you could recognize them?”

You awkwardly clear your throat, posing another question to avoid answering yourself. “Not even the droids?”

“I’m afraid so. The cryptograms are nothing terribly especial, as you can see, but they _are_ peculiar. In short, we don’t know what to do with them yet. Why? Do you have any idea that can throw some light onto this big headache of ours?”

 “E-er… well…” you hesitate, assailed by a myriad of contradicting thoughts. Lying has never been amongst your scarce talents and is probably one of the things you hate the most, but, despite the friendly demeanour of your co-workers and how unexpectedly at ease you feel here, you cannot forget _where_ you are and _who_ these people are. Daclan is nice, and Zekk, and Thea, but you have merely been working for the First Order a grand total of nine days and you cannot dispel the deeply embedded distrust in the depths of your psyche. They captured you, they tortured you, and now they pay you in exchange for your professional services. _Where does trust apply in that relationship?_ It remains to be seen whether this isn’t an extension of your captivity ― because, in many aspects, it _is_ , and you are painfully aware. Knowledge is power, your father used to say, and you don’t want to throw all your cards on the table this soon. In fact, whatever knowledge they haven’t gotten from you yet is the one thing you have left.

Fortunately, Daclan takes your silence as a negative and drops the subject. “Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Forget about all that.”

His attention returns to his own datapad, and you make the impression of doing the same while musing over the information you just received. The First Order is intercepting all these messages without knowing what they truly are, and they are storing them because they are suspicious, which somehow speaks in favour of their intelligence. But they cannot read them. Figures, not even you can read those. He made sure it would be nearly impossible to decipher by unwanted individuals, after all, and his work had always been thorough.

_But perhaps you could…_

_Yes, you could try._

_No, stop._

Shaking your head, you try to dispel those thoughts.

The familiar, agreeable silence you have already grown accustomed to in the workplace settles down after that brief conversation and the rest of the morning goes by swiftly, immersed in a load of mind-numbing work. Daclan interrupts you when lunchtime approaches, giving you both permission to leave as soon as you are done with today’s documents. You end up skipping lunch to finish the translations before time, thus having most of the afternoon free until your dinner plans.

Typing one last word and giving the final results a quick overview, you check that all the documents have been sent to your boss and stretch your tired arms above your head with a satisfied sigh. “Done. See you in two days!”

“You sure look happy to get rid of us, uh? Should we feel insulted?”

“Not at all, boss. I just spend so much time here with you day after day, my bed is starting to feel lonely,” you nervously joke.

His heartfelt laughter follows your rushed steps as you anxiously cross the command post, waving dismissively at the people you come across. Once in the deserted corridor outside, you lean against the wall with a relieved sigh and securely tug the hem of your shirt over the borrowed datapad you have tucked on the waistband of your pants when no one was looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More world-building, lots of OCs and a glimpse of plot.  
> Next chapter is much more lighter in tone, there is alcohol involved, gossip, and the long-awaited return of Kylo Ren.
> 
> By the way, according to the Wookieepedia, the Galactic Standard Calendar apparently has 10 months of 7 weeks (plus 3 holiday weeks), each with 5 days (Primeday, Centaxday, Taungsday, Zhellday and Benduday). I had to make up some sort of work schedule.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! :)


	4. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have a way of deciphering the encrypted messages, although the moral implications of what you are doing trouble you. Meanwhile, your newest friend has invited you to have dinner and drinks to forget everything undesirable that has happened in the last weeks, but the powerful shadow of Kylo Ren keeps haunting your every thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ~!  
> Yes, two updates in two days. Unprecedented and most likely a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. ^^U  
> I already mentioned the third and the fourth chapter sort of belonged to a same unit and I ended up dividing them. This way they look much better.  
> I can't say for sure when the following chapters will be ready, so... enjoy this for the time being!
> 
> TW: ALCOHOL
> 
>  
> 
> "'Cause in my dreams it's always there  
> The evil face that twists my mind and brings me to despair.
> 
> The night was black, was no use holding back  
> 'Cause I just had to see, was someone watching me  
> In the mist dark figures move and twist  
> Was all this for real, or just some kind of hell?"  
> The Number of the Beast, Iron Maiden

You take a deep breath in the air of your little apartment, feeling a pinch of melancholy at how fast everything is changing. The unfamiliar room where you woke up terrified weeks ago has become somewhat of a personal sanctuary where you can hide after a stressful day at work, where nothing but the ghosts you carry inside can harm you. It certainly resembles something akin to a home now ― at least, the closest thing to a home you will find in such a place.

The eerily clean smell has almost completely disappeared, mingling with that of old books, sweets and coffee associated with your daily routine. The grammar volumes you have borrowed from the workplace are piled at the floor by the couch, next to an empty mug and a folded blanket that denote your usual reading spot, curled up on the cushions next to the window. It doesn’t really connect with the outdoors, as you believe to be several miles underground, but shows instead a simulation of a peaceful landscape with shifting light throughout the day. It’s nice, but at the same time it’s one of the factors that contributes to preserve the lingering foreignness in the ambience. You would like to see the real surface of this planet sometime, maybe get out of the base for a few minutes if it’s not asking too much, and breathe some fresh air. Everything here is so different from your previous residence and lifestyle… And you haven’t discarded yet the possibility that there are cameras hidden somewhere to control your every move. It doesn’t sound that far-fetched.

Feeling slightly paranoid, you inspect the visible corners of the living room before taking the ― technically stolen ― datapad out from beneath your clothes. Daclan would undoubtedly have allowed you to borrow it without any problems if you had asked politely, but you don’t want him to know you have it or what you plan on using it for, at least for the time being. Because you are not entirely sure what you’re going to do with it yourself.

You place it on the table with an exaggerated amount of caution, as if it was a bomb prone to detonate, and exhale, looking at the clock on the wall. There’s still plenty of time to prepare for tonight and maybe have a first look into your silly secret project. But, first, a long hot shower to clear your head seems in order. Until you get rid of the chaotic mess of contradicting notions fighting each other within your head, you will be unable to sort your thoughts and do anything useful. As if all that wasn’t enough, you spent most of last night tossing and turning in bed, assaulted by one of those fitful nightmares about the masked man that had violated your mind. It occurs so often that it’s beginning to almost feel _normal_ , those rare nights in which you get to sleep peacefully being the anomaly.

Just to make sure you forget every vague remembrance of that upsetting dream ― one of many ―, you spend some additional minutes basking in the hot water and the faint perfume of the shampoo, emerging from the steam-filled bathroom wrapped in a fluffy towel with a sigh of utter contentment. “Much better.”

Relishing on this renewed sense of relaxation, you untangle your hair with a brush, allowing the damp tresses to dry naturally as you rummage through your scarcely supplied wardrobe looking for something comfortable you can wear later. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to consider. The clothes you wore during the imprisonment had been cleaned and mended by some invisible hand, appearing at the foot of your bed one day when you returned from work, impeccably folded. Those you have been using as casual and sleeping wear as of late, especially after having to cut the pants mid-thigh because they were shredded beyond repair. Refusing to put on again the same garments you had worn this morning, you end up picking up your old pale blue tank top and begrudgingly pair it with the uniform black tightfitting pants. It doesn’t look too bad, but you seriously need to go shopping.

Your growling stomach choses that moment to kindly remind you that you skipped lunch before, grabbing a half-eaten package of biscuits from your ever-diminishing supplies and preparing yourself some reinvigorating herbal tea on your way through the kitchen. You carefully sidestep the small mountain of books to put everything on the table. Nobody cares much about physical books anymore, truth be told. They are rare and hardly used nowadays, an impractical relic, but there is something about them you love. Daclan has allowed you to take some from the shelves in the office, though there are not many and they mostly deal with tedious linguistic topics. You miss your personal library so much it hurts, especially because most of those books belonged to your father and are irreplaceable in more ways than the obvious one. Losing them feels like losing a chunk of your heart, an important piece of your past and your identity.

Luckily, there is not much time to dwell on those laments if you want to get something done before it’s time to leave.

“Okay, let’s see…” you whisper, taking the datapad in your hands.

You tap on the screen to turn it on and navigate through the stored files. Instead of following Daclan’s instructions to eliminate the encrypted message, you had moved it to your personal mail so that you could open it on others devices but it didn’t appear in the one you used at work. For all they know, you have gotten rid of it. This feels so clandestine your heart starts pounding with expectation ― even if, essentially, you aren’t doing anything forbidden or wrong. You just… want to take a peek at those symbols and see if you can do something to decipher the code. It’s rather absurd, because you don’t even know what will happen if you somehow accomplish the almost impossible deed. It was a foolish impulsive idea…, but you are excited.

You trace the symbols with your fingertips, following the swirls and dots as if you could understand them just like that. They bring a warm yet painful pang of nostalgia to your chest, about days that are no more. You miss him so much.

What would he think of everything you are going through in order to survive? _Huh. Nothing good._

It doesn’t take much to reach the conclusion that there is nothing you can do unless you retrieve the necessary software from the Resistance’s network or miraculously learn to interpret a language that, in essence, has never existed. Well, you could try to hack their system… if only you knew how. It seems you are have met a dead end before even starting, but you will come up with something to make it work. Turning the datapad off again, you hide it beneath the cushions of the sofa.

“Time to go.”

You lace your boots, check your general appearance on the bathroom mirror, and close the apartment door behind you on your way out. You would have liked not to show up at the dinner empty-handed but, regrettably, your company is the best you can offer at the moment. The residential area is distributed in several floors and corridors based on ranks and work departments. For instance, your friend lives on the same level as you but on a different area; the officers you know to live on the higher floors, and workers inferior on the hierarchy live in shared quarters on the lowest floor. After half a life of sharing your vital space with other people, from the bathroom to the wardrobe, you truly feel privileged to have an apartment just for yourself, however humble it is.

Thea opens the door right after you first knock, sporting her usual grin and one of her enthusiastic greetings. She is wearing some cute pyjamas and a headband that keeps her blond hair away from her heart-shaped face. “Welcome to my humble abode, (y/n). Come in, come in!”

Her quarters are similar to yours, but it’s evident she has been here for a longer time, small traces of her presence patent on every corner of the room ― some clothing items here and there, pictures on the walls, and the unmistakable warmth of a place someone has made their home. The air is filled with a sweet flowery scent and soft jazz music coming from a small music box on the table, as well as the mouth-watering smell of whatever she is cooking in the oven. She motions for you to get comfortable on the couch as she waltzes back to the kitchen, takes a look into the oven muttering something to herself, and retrieves a bottle of wine from the fridge. “What do you say, should we get this party started?”

You nearly groan at the sight. “Yes, _please_.”

Her laughter is rather contagious, and soon you find yourself smiling more than you have in a very long while, sitting side by side on the sofa. Thea pours a generous amount of wine on two glasses before handing you one, holding hers on the air as to pronounce a toast. “To a great night,” she proclaims.

You gently touch your glass to hers. “And to a prosperous friendship.”

The blonde girl literally squeals in delight, pouncing on you to envelop your body in a bear hug. Fortunately, you are quick to move the glass away before any liquid is spilt. It’s a rich, fruity vintage you do not desire to waste on the carpet. “I’m so glad you’re liking it here, after all. Next time we should go out, though. I have to introduce you to a lot of people!” She had previously mentioned the existence of a designated recreational area somewhere in the base, like a bar, with music and an actual dancefloor. It was the kind of atmosphere you could easily picture her in, and you had a strong suspicion she prepared this relatively peaceful night so that you felt comfortable before bringing more strangers into the equation. Some of her friends you have already met in passing in the mess hall, but you barely remember a couple of names well enough to associate them with their faces and jobs.

It is a damn miracle she appeared in your life when she did, truth be told, because you would be completely lost without her thoughtful assistance, even if sometimes her energy results a bit overwhelming.

In the course of the early evening you drink, talk about your day, and laugh a lot without a care in the world ― all in all, you effectively forget about everything that troubled your mind earlier, which is a blessing. Thinking back on it, you never had close female friends back in the Resistance beyond polite business relationships that were entirely shallow, and the change feels great. The scene reminds you of the nights you used to spend drinking and playing cards with the rebel pilots. You take a long drink of wine to quell those nostalgic thoughts.

Sometime later, the angry growls of your stomachs join the conversation and she hurries towards the oven, taking out a fairly big vegetable quiche than smells as heavenly as it looks delicious.

“Phew, I almost let it burn. I made sure there would be plenty of it, in case you want to take some leftovers for tomorrow,” she says, placing the steaming mould on the table with the help of a dish cloth. “Lots of cheese ― works miracles for hangovers and lazy Bendudays.”

“Sounds wonderful, T. Ugh, I’m famished. I wanted to leave work early, so I didn’t eat properly today.”

She rolls her eyes. “Typical (y/n).”

You both sit at the table, nursing newly-filled glasses of wine. The first tentative bite of the quiche coaxes a moan from your mouth, it’s so delicious. The myriad flavours from the many ingredients she has used in the dish blend together perfectly, and the crust is the perfect amount of crisp. You had no idea Thea was such a splendid cook, but _of course_ you are taking whatever remains are left when you finish eating tonight ― and you are definitely getting the recipe. Conversation is made short as you essentially devour the dinner and, once you are both full and contented, you move back to the couch with a second bottle of wine and a pocket full of absurd topics to discuss.

At some point, it becomes clear that the alcohol has completely taken over to your brains when you start shamelessly gossiping about people you see every day at work. Thea has a seemingly endless list of crushes among your colleagues, currently led by Zekk ― hah, you knew it ― and some anxious Lieutenant that usually works outside the base. Listening to her never-ending deliberations about which of your superiors has the best-looking ass, you eventually end up laying on your back on the cushions rather unceremoniously, one leg dangling from the sofa, with her sprawled on the floor.

“I was thinking about getting a pet or something. Did you know that Hux has a cat?” the blonde girl giggles, swaying her legs on the air. “Name’s Millicent. I had to take care of her once and she left fur all over my clothes.”

“I don’t like Hux,” you whine, taking another sip of wine. “But I do like cats. I know ― we can steal his cat!”

“Oooooooh, we totally should! Right? I already have Millicent’s trust, so it will be easy… and he’ll probably think it was Ren. _Flawless plan_!”

You grimace at the mention of that name. He hadn’t crossed your thoughts once since the beginning of the night, and now he is back to haunt you even in this situation. “Why would Hux think that _he_ did it?”

“I don’t know, because they’re like children,” she says. “Some days when they're discussing next to my work station I feel like throwing something at their heads, maybe knock that helmet of Ren’s head and see what he looks like. Danya says he has tentacles.”

“I don’t like Kylo Ren either…”

She snorts. “I don’t think _anyone_ likes him ‘round here. Especially the engineering crew, ‘cause he destroys everything whenever he gets angry and starts ― psssshew whuuuuuuuuuuuum whuuum kssssssschhh ― with his glowing stick. He’s got a nice ass, tho.”

You snort.

“Well, don’t worry… he’s been away, like, forever, doing whatever on the _Finalizer_.”

“Good. I don’t want to see him ever again,” you continue your intoxicated rambling.

“Oh, crap. I forgot he used those weird-ass Force tricks on you when you were captured, like he does when some officer messes things up and he just…,” she wiggles her fingers in the air mockingly, knocking one of the empty bottles to the ground, where it rolls away until meeting the wall with a _clunk_. “You don’t have to answer, but how… how did it feel?”

Calling those dreadful memories to mind sends a shudder through your body even through the blissful fog created by the alcohol, and you freeze for a moment, vividly visualizing his imposing black silhouette obscuring the lights of the ceiling. If you try hard enough, you can almost feel him raking through your thoughts all over again, and hear his distorted voice mocking you just like in your nightmares. “It was terrifying. And it hurt, a lot. I couldn’t tell him what he wanted, and then he… he was inside my head and…” You are not aware that a tear is rolling down your cheek until you taste its saltiness on your lips. “I hate him.”

Silence engulfs the room, and you can tell the mood is instantly ruined.

The pleasant tingle of the wine has abandoned your body, leaving only sadness and dizziness behind. The prolonged quietness makes you look towards the foot of the couch, where a barely conscious Thea is blankly staring at the ceiling through heavy-lidded eyes. With a long aggravated moan, you manage to stand up, battling the light-headedness as you squat next to the girl and attempt to lift her off the ground without much success. Though her cooperation is non-existent for anything but make you trip every few steps and utter nonsensical giggles, you somehow manage to drag her to the bedroom and lay her on the bed. As soon as her body touches the mattress, she is out like a light, humming contentedly against the pillow. The tempting idea of crashing on her couch crosses your mind, but there is a warm comfortable bed of your own waiting.

You remember to pick up the wrapped quiche leftovers at the very last moment before staggering out of your friend’s apartment. The corridors are eerily quiet this late in the night, although you honestly have no idea of what time it is. Shadows rise from every corner, playing with your mind, and after fifteen minutes walking you realize you might have gotten lost. _How_ , you are not sure, because you only had to walk a straight line from Thea’s quarters to reach yours. The wine doesn’t help, clouding your reason and making you believe that you will get to your destination if you walk enough, even if the direction is the opposite. You read that somewhere. At least you think you did.

Lost in that foolish train of thought, you suddenly run into a wall. A very tall, human-shaped black wall.

Blinking in bewilderment, you look up and see a well-known mask looking down at you. Only then you realize he is gripping your arm to prevent you from falling on your arse, but, as you as soon as your balance seems more or less stable, he hurries to release you as if your skin burned. _Wait_ … why is Kylo Ren here, in front of you? Is this some sort of cruel hallucination? Thea said the Commander wasn’t in the base, so this couldn’t possibly be him. You are starting to feel sick and tired of being continuously running away from his spectre, both in the dead of the night and with your eyes wide open.

You have to admit he looks daunting as ever in the dim corridor. Damn, you feel small. Your face is level with his chest. His very solid and broad chest. Can hallucinations feel solid? Perhaps you aren’t even awake but snoring in your friend’s couch, and this is just another nightmare. That would make infinitely more sense than any possibility your overactive drunken brain may come up with.

“The linguist,” that gravelly voice you dread so much crackles. It’s hard to tell because of the distortion, but you would swear he is as confused about seeing you as you feel at the moment.

“Please, don’t kill me, almighty hallucination.”

 “… You are drunk.”

“No, I’m not." You emit a short but highly unbecoming giggle. "Wow, my imagination sure is amazing ― you actually seem real.”

 “Go to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna,” you petulantly retort and he emits an exasperated noise that comes out as a deep distorted rumble. You study the dented lines of the mask in a confusing amalgam of curiosity and trepidation, staring intently at the black screen that supposedly covers his eyes with reckless insolence. “If I do, you will be there.” For one second, he looks taken aback, at least as much as one can look taken aback with his whole expression concealed. “I mean, you are… _here_ , but if I fall asleep you will be there too and hurt me again, and…” you trail off. “Ugh, it’s really frustrating, talking to a goddam mask. Just what the hell are you hiding there? Do you really have _tentacles_ or something?"

The man seems to hesitate for a moment, probably wondering how he has ended in such a surrealistic situation and why he is even playing along with the nonsensical absurdities of an inebriated woman, especially _you_. His hand moves and you instinctively step back, but he merely brings it to the side of the helmet in a movement that you wouldn’t have expected even in your intoxicated state, and activates some kind of hidden mechanism. The mouthpiece of the mask moves outwards, and he removes the offending helmet away after a pause of last minute hesitation. Mouth parted in disbelief, you hungrily take in the details of his unexpected appearance as they are revealed. Waves of thick black hair brush his shoulders and frame a long, pale face dotted with moles, a sharp aquiline nose and full lips that pull into a half-smirk at your humorous reaction.

For one second, your mind goes blank. “ _Damn_.”

He cocks his head to the side questioningly.

“You’re hot. You can’t be hot! That’s all _wrong_.”

“. . .”

“L-look, just leave me alone already. Stop… driving me mad. You can’t just go around kidnapping people and tying them to chairs… unless they are into that kind of thing… and messing with their brains, and…,” you glare, pointing a finger at him in an attempt to appear intimidating though your face if comically flushed and you can’t even stand straight on your feet for longer than three seconds. Growing uncomfortable under his intense dark gaze, you throw your arms on the air and huff. “Whatever, I’m tired.”

Stumbling on your own boots, you disappear into the shadows leaving a very dumbfounded Kylo Ren standing alone in the hallway at four in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, leaving comments and kudos! ♥
> 
> I can't believe people actually like what I write, hahaha. I've seen some incredible stories out there, and deep down I'm aware this one has many flaws in comparison. I hope to keep improving my English narrative skills, though, as is the main reason I write fanfiction.
> 
> PS. The "always getting somewhere if you walk long enough" bit is a small reference to the Chesire Cat's words in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. They just came to my mind.


	5. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your little drunken episode last night seemingly was the push you needed to plunge into the abyss. However, it's hard to tell whether it has do to with your fear of Kylo Ren anymore or just with that ever-growing tempest within your mind threatening to consume you. Maybe you do need help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!  
> I will begin this note with a most heartfelt apology. First, for the delay, but also for the chapter itsef.
> 
> This has been written over the span of two difficult weeks, being changed multiple times to a point in which I don't know what I've written anymore. Just yesterday I realized that, even if it didn't start with that purpose, writing this story has become at times a frightening reflection of my own state of mind. It's rather therapeutic to write, but depressing to read. Hell, I just keep throwing trauma after trauma onto the protagonist - it's no wonder she is losing her grasp on sanity.
> 
> I only hope it's not as terrible as it seems to me, and that I don't rewrite any more of it.
> 
>  
> 
> "Something is changing,  
> Bruising and aching,  
> And I'm trying to find out what it is.  
> When I fix her, she's breaking.  
> Reason keeps escaping me,  
> Protecting and burning like a cyst."  
> The Tempest, Pendulum

Regret.

It hits you hard even before the first threads of consciousness fully reach you across the desolated landscape that is your mind the following morning, forcefully dragging you away from dreamland, through the wreckage of a mental battlefield, to lay you on the shore of a tumultuous ocean. Relentless waves of nausea ebb and flow in time with the dull throbbing assaulting your head, the lingering taste of rancid alcohol heavy on your tongue like acid, and, burning brightly amongst it all, _regret_.

The world spins dramatically when you open one leaden eye, just for half a second, and hiss at the offending sunlight seeping into the bedroom. Your first conscious decision consists on wrapping the duvet more tightly around yourself, diving head first into the comfortable realm of darkness that dwells under the bedsheets. The movement only worsens the sickening rocking of the precarious boat to which you are clinging for dear life, fearing it will throw you onto the raging tide at any moment and you will have to make a run to pray to the porcelain god. Mercifully, as you lay immobile, almost scared to breathe, the dizziness seems to settle down. At least you’re able to ignore it to some degree and focus on what actually troubles you.

_What the hell happened?_

Oh, how you dislike the morning after a night of good old adult irresponsibility.

Groaning against the pillow, you attempt to gather the puzzle pieces of last night’s happenings scattered amongst the mental debris and reconstruct some vague idea of why you should feel so utterly mortified. Drinking yourself into oblivion already is something regrettable on itself, but somehow you doubt that is the reason why your subconscious is telling you to go crawl into a hole and die. Because this is not your first hangover, not by far, but it might easily be one of the worst you can evoke, emotionally speaking. You can’t brush aside the gnawing sensation that you have done something incredibly, terribly wrong. Well, it can’t possibly be worse than that one time you got tricked into drinking an absurdly strong alien liquor and ended up dancing on a table…, right? Or that other time when you accepted a stupid dare and somehow got captured as prisoner of war ― enter nervous cough. Frankly, this whole dynamic of waking up feeling like shit, unable to remember vital information, is becoming a very bad habit. One you should drop immediately.

 _Let’s see_ …

The last thing you remember without blanks is being in Thea’s quarters. The dinner, the wine, the gossiping. At some point during the night she had performed a very accurate impersonation of a constipated General Hux, and it had been so funny you had fallen off the couch laughing and hit your knee against something ― yep, you can definitely feel a nasty bruise forming there. Anything that might have transpired after that particular episode is either too blurry or entirely missing from the picture. You don’t even remember how you miraculously got to your room, just walking aimlessly around the base in the middle of the night, wandering in a drunken stupor until finding a black wall in your way.

Yes, you begin to connect the fragments now. You had… talked with someone? The colour black tells you something. The black wall. Someone. Tall and dark… looking down at you from behind a fearsome mask. The air hitches in your throat.

NO.

          No, no, no, no, no.

                                          Surely you didn’t…

                                                                          But you did.

Horror grips your insides at the appalling realization that what you foolishly believed to be some kind of delusion had most likely been a very real and very humiliating experience that could put an end to whatever illusion of normality you have constructed here. That could put an end to your life. It had been an outstanding miracle that you had been spared the first time, but now… Oh, stars. Is there some remote possibility that the whole scene was product of an overdose of low-quality wine, after all? Unlikely. Everything had felt too genuine; his voice, his presence, his… face. That realization weights heavier than anything else ― you have seen his face. How did this happen, anyway? He was not supposed to be in Starkiller, but of course he could have returned last night, just in time to participate in your little drunken episode of complete dignity loss. The more you think it over, suddenly perfectly able to recall everything you said and did, the more sick you feel, until your quivering body throws itself out of bed seized by panic, the duvet dragging behind you in your sprint to the bathroom.

_Ugh. It cannot be true._

When you finish retching and flush the toilet, you lean your forehead against its cold surface, still deep in shock. It sounds unbelievable, indeed. You have spoken with the Master of the Knights of Ren, the protagonist and fuel of your worst nightmares, the architect of your misery, while _drunk_. Not merely tipsy, charmingly drunk, but downright hammered and out of your mind. You bumped into him, blatantly back-talked him, said unbelievably embarrassing things, virtually insulted him ― worst of all, you confessed just how irrationally frightened you feel at the mere mention of his name, that you are haunted by his spectre. And he… he _didn’t_ kill you. Again. He had looked as confused as yourself, almost sympathetic to some point, and for some incomprehensible reason he had actually played along with your silliness. The wine must have truly done a number in your brain, if that is how you remember everything.

A humourless laugh falls from your lips. You don’t understand anything. Can’t you just… wake up in your cot back at the Resistance base and discover this has all been a cruel cosmic joke of a nightmare? _Please_.

Caught in a state of numb stupefaction, you drag your feet to the living room, wincing when your headache responds to the sharp brightness of, well, everything. Whoever decided white was the right colour to decorate an entire house had obviously not taken hangovers into consideration. You heat the container with the quiche leftovers and munch on them rather dispassionately, the rich flavour turning to ashes in your mouth as you repeat last night’s remembrances again and again like a broken record, feeling more and more appalled.

The one and only Kylo Ren took off his mask in your presence to satisfy your childish curiosity. Why? To keep toying with your already twisted mind? To demonstrate that he was, indeed, human? _Human_. _Heh_. _Yeah, right._

The general image of his visage as you contemplated it’s somewhat unclear, but you can paint the details perfectly within your mind if you concentrate enough. Thick waves of pure black in stark contrast with pale skin that was artfully decorated with a playful array of freckles and moles creating a constellation all over his face. A long nose and full lips in harmony with the rest of his features, and dark smouldering eyes that seemed to look right through your soul. He looked so young, so normal, so… unexpectedly handsome. You shudder, feeling filthy at that mere thought. Any pleasant notion fades away when pushing forth the ambush, the imprisonment, the interrogation room, the pain and the impotence, lest you forget them. It’s like a mantra that keeps you rooted to reality, a warning and reminder of your true place among the First Order.

 _He is a sadistic, merciless monster_ , you tell yourself. _And I’m still his prisoner, nothing but an ant at the mercy of his boot._

After unceremoniously dumping the dirty dishes on the sink, your first impulse is to return to the bedroom and spend the rest of your day off being a pitiful burrito of regret. Despite how tempting the idea sounds, the ever-exasperating voice of your conscience reminds you they must have transferred a shiny new pay check into you monetary account by now and your kitchen couldn’t be emptier. Still in that sort of trance, you put last night’s clothes on and pull your hair back onto a messy ponytail, not really caring about the appearance you offer at the moment, and drag your feet through out of your door. Ignoring everyone you come across is easy, at least until you begin to catch broken conversations about the Command Shutter having returned to the hangar. Your chest tightens, and you walk faster.

Without paying much attention to what you are throwing into the basket, you buy three heavy bags full to the brim with groceries, then go looking for the office of the quartermaster ― whom you have been told is in charge of providing any other kind of supplies. The base receives several shipments every week and the employees can make requests as to what they desire to acquire, within reason. You end up ordering some clothes that hopefully will break the dull scheme in your wardrobe and some good quality toiletries to replace the generic ones in your refresher, along a couple of trivial things to place around you apartment and make it more homely. It’s highly probable you will return sometime later this week to ask about books, but right now you are not in the mood. If someone asks, you haven’t said that, ever. Not being in the mood _for books_ says it all: you are not yourself anymore.

Halfway to your quarters, the nausea and the tell-tale prickling of tears on your eyes assault you again, out of nowhere. You put the groceries away as hastily as possible, change into your pyjamas, and barricade yourself in the bedroom to nurse a giant bowl of chocolate ice-cream wrapped in a protective cocoon of blankets. In the darkness, you weep and eat your troubled feelings, and your drunken memories, and your regret.

* * *

Come morning, you find yourself physically unable to get out of bed. There is no apparent ailment that may impede you from doing so, even the annoying symptoms of hangover have vanished entirely from your system, but your body won’t move. Despite knowing it’s irresponsible, inappropriate of someone of your age and position, ridiculously unreasonable, you _don’t want_ to leave your quarters today ― you don’t want to face the world. You don’t have the strength to do it.

In silence, you stare at the ceiling for a long while, not a single thought crossing your mind. The usually chaotic space is mysteriously empty, filled only with dust and blue traces of sadness. Twice do you stand up and walk towards the door only to start sobbing inexplicably, unable to take a step further. When it becomes quite evident that you won’t be working today, you call a droid to inform your boss you are feeling a bit under the weather. It’s not a lie, not really. There is an underlying question in his response, but he shows sympathy and tells you to rest until you are recovered.

Recovered from what? You don’t even know what is wrong with you anymore.

You dismiss the droid, curl up under the bedsheets and fall asleep again, waking up sometime later with a growling stomach. It takes an absurd amount of courage to walk outside of the bedroom, as if anything outside from that small protective space was a minefield. Hastily and sloppily, you make yourself a pitiful excuse of a sandwich and return to bed right after with a grammar book in your hands. You read for a while, you sleep, you get up to visit the bathroom a couple of times, then you eat some meagre dinner when the artificial light coming from the window turns dark gold at dusk. Even if you have spent most of the day napping and doing absolutely nothing productive, you feel exhausted. Crawling back into bed, sleep envelops you in its arms the moment you bury your ― suddenly ― tear-streaked face into the pillow.

* * *

The timid fingers of sunlight reach into the room at dawn and, though you have been awake for hours just staring into the darkness, you immediately know you won’t be walking out of your apartment today. This time, when the droid returns with an answer from Daclan, he actually asks what your predicament is, and you have the feeling he already knows. _Nothing escapes that man_ , you mentally chuckle, he always notices when something is amiss. For a second, you consider confessing everything about your unstable emotions, your nightmares, and what you being to suspect is some sort of mental condition derived from the circumstances you have experienced in the last fortnight. But you only tell him that you are inexplicably tired, and that you need to rest.

The droid returns a second time bearing a brief message from the bearded man. “(y/n), I think you should see a psychiatrist.”

* * *

On the third morning, you wake up feeling in an entirely different way. Calm and devoid of any previous concerns. In few words ― numb. Everything that occurred that dreadful night feels like an odd undesirable dream, distant in time and space, almost unreal. Lying in bed like a corpse during the last few days feels unreal, too.

For the first time in forever, you actually take the time to prepare yourself a healthy copious breakfast. Your every movement is slow and stress-free, as if you hadn’t a care in the world. And in part you sense it’s true, like the emotional storm that mercilessly battered you for weeks is gone, leaving an abnormal serenity behind. But it’s supposed to be the calm that precedes the storm, not the other way round.

You pay no mind to anything you see on your way to the command post, just putting one foot in front of the other mechanically. Daclan is not in his usual post when you arrive at the office; nor is Zekk, for that matter. In fact, there is no one around safe for a couple of yawning officers on the consoles of the upper levels. You only realize that is ridiculously early after taken a seat behind your desk and consulting the time on a datapad. You shrug it off, as if having come to work almost two hours before time is a totally common and funny occurrence. You cross your arms over your chest, distractedly looking at the workers as they arrive, just waiting patiently.

Sometime later Daclan appears, tiredly rubbing the sleep from his face. He does a double take at seeing you there, smiling expectantly at him like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and approaches your desk with a deepening frown. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“Dammit, (y/n), it’s half past six in the morning. You appear here before sunrise, after being mysteriously absent for two days like nothing’s wrong,” he practically shouts, then exhales deeply. “Did you receive my message?”

“The droid delivered it.”

“And?”

“Unnecessary. I’m fine, really. I have come today, see? Just give me something to do.”

“You are _not_ fine, (y/n). Look, you’ve been through a lot and it’s perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed. Your brain is still taking everything in and a human can only handle so much stress before crumbling under the pressure. The more you ignore it, the worst it’s gonna get. It’d be best if you received the opinion and assistance of an expert.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat through gritted your teeth, feeling an irrational frustration bubbling inside you. “Why don’t you believe me? Nothing’s wrong. I want to work.”

He blatantly disregards your words, shaking his head in mild exasperation. “I’ll schedule an appointment with Dr Solvan for you,” he sternly declares, severe blue eyes boring into yours and leaving no room for protest. Daclan walks away, practically stomping to his table, and taps something on his datapad with a display of uncharacteristic aggressiveness that makes you flinch. “There you go, a nice shitload of work to catch up. Enjoy.”

You have to bite your tongue to refrain from extending your impertinent outburst, knowing he doesn't deserve it, and begrudgingly open the first file he has sent to your mail. Both of you work in absolute silence, the man disappearing from time to time to comply with his own obligations. However, it’s not the pleasant calmness that usually reigns on the office, but a tense quietude that weights heavy on the ambience and makes time pass by awfully slow. Battling the upsetting wave of annoyance still crawling under your skin, you become so engrossed on reading and writing that the next time you lift your gaze from the screen Zekk is already occupying his chair, headphones on and all. He offers you a small smile and a wave, and you do your best to return the gesture, returning to your tasks without a second’s delay.

The morning goes by in this odd monotonous haze, the rhythmic thudding of fingers tapping on screens creating an almost hypnotic melody. At midday you run out of work and ask ― almost beg ― Daclan to give you something else to do to occupy your mind. He eyes you warily for several moments but complies with your request nevertheless. Over the following hours, your boss and your sole co-worker seemingly take turns to study your behaviour and share looks of concern. Another hour goes by and the screen of the datapad shows once more an empty inbox.

“Hey, boss, I―”

But he is not there.

“H-Hum…” Zekk hesitantly speaks up, clearing his throat. “He left a couple of minutes ago… to talk with someone in the top level. You should wait here, I guess?”

Huffing, you lean back on your chair, but find no relaxing posture. Restlessness spreads like wildfire, it itches on your very skin and you quickly grow anxious and uncomfortable as the minutes tick by. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. You jump onto your feet, almost knocking the chair over, and deliberatedly ignore Zekk's protests at the announcement that you are going to look for Daclan. Like an infant that feels the need to tell the teacher he has finished his assignments or show his drawing just to receive attention, feeling uncertain, afraid of being unattended for too long. Lost.

You hesitate for a second at the foot of the short flight of steps that connects the different tiers, which has turned into the steep slope of a colossal mountain. One foot in front of the other foot, you sluggishly make your way up into what you have been deeming as hostile land since day one when you saw the General roaming about like a lion guarding his domain. Fortunately, you haven't seen him today. The presence of actual windows startles you for a moment ― pure white, natural light pours inside from the surface of the planet. _Snow, and rocks, and trees in the distance_. Nature looks so out of place here, just like yourself, but that's nothing new. The elbow of a clumsy officer knocks onto your back, and the spark of pain brings you crashing back down to earth. The atmosphere is very different from the familiar one downstairs, an entirely different world. The top level is noisy and stressful, with a continuous beeping of machines, officers barking orders and overwrought-looking people running from one place to another. A familiar head of blond hair stands out amidst the rows of consoles, but for some reason you don’t feel like talking to Thea right now. Or to anyone. But you had wanted to talk to Daclan just one minute ago... It doesn't make sense. Suddenly, you don’t even know why you have ascended the stairs, why you felt the need to go looking for your boss, or why you have come to work at all, when you could be in bed where everything is safe and quiet and nothing can harm you.

The cold fingers of panic spread through you, clutching your frantic heart in a painful grip, and your brain just ceases to work then and there. Dazed, you turn to leave and stop mid-step when your gaze catches a flash of black. Standing several feet away is your boss, looking very serious with those deep worry lines on his face even more pronounced than usual, while talking with none other than Kylo Ren. For a moment that stretches into eternity, you stay there looking at them, feet cemented to that spot. Frozen, invisible, like you are not there at all. You see them, but they don’t see you. You can’t hear them. _Could they be talking about you?_ The moment that familiar mask turns in your direction, as if abruptly beckoned by your mental scream, you find the necessary drive to move, jumping the steps two at a time on your desperate escape from the command post.

You don't even know why, but you run, run, run, only stopping when your body tips dangerously to the right and you collide with a wall. Your legs are wobbly and feel like they can’t hold your weight anymore, your eyes watery, your lungs on fire, and your thoughts deafened by the unfathomable emptiness once more filling your head. Shaking from head to toe, you wipe stray beads of sweat and tears alike with the sleeve of your uniform, taking only one minute to catch your breath and immediately start walking again. If you stop moving, you will crumble to the ground wherever you stand and just lay there. Perhaps you can find an exit and go roll around in the snow, feel the cold, feel _something_ , lie there and let it consume you. Like a lost soul wandering the limbo between worlds, you wander around the base for who knows how many hours, passing people that are but shadows and aware of nothing but the ringing silence engulfing your senses. There are voices trying to draw your attention, but you are far too deep in this reverie.

_I am not here. Don't look at me. Leave me alone._

There is something out of place when you finally return to your quarters at night, dragging your boots like a sulking child. A subtle hint on the air. Someone has been here. You don’t know how you even know that, you just… know that someone has crossed the sacred barrier to your sanctuary. That thought makes you start trembling anew, tearful eyes falling on the foreign objects that cast an elongated shadow on the surface of the table, dimly illuminated by a fake moonbeam.

A flower, next to a piece of paper where someone has scribbled the time for an appointment next morning in the medical bay.

You crumple the note with unnecessary vehemence, tear it into a thousand pieces and toss it aside on the carpet. Then, dispassionately, you take the long stem of the blossom between your fingers and bring it closer to your face, as if it was some exotic, bizarre sight the likes you have never seen. The same thought from earlier crosses your mind ― there is no room for beauty or pureness in a place like this, where the demons dwell. Its white petals glow with a ethereal halo of silver as you delicately trace them with your quivering fingertips, the ghost of some ancient notion of innocence that will be tainted and wither and die, just like yourself. Tears fall, raindrops, glinting like morning dew, but the sweet scent washes over you with a whisper of peacefulness that quietens the tempest and lulls you to sleep. To sleep, yes… to dream. _But, please, no nightmares_ , you silently plead. You are so tired.

As you withdraw into the shadows of the bedroom, one with them, the flower remains behind tilting languidly in a vase, a beacon in the moonlight. You will rest among the darkness tonight, and seam the broken pieces of your soul in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I can't add enough angst tags to this.
> 
> Kylo, do something to fix this mess.


	6. Picking up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You undergo a psyhcological evaluation, albeit somewhat unwillingly. Your doctor is nice and the whole experience is not as awful as you had thought, but then you have an unexpected and heart-stopping epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! :)
> 
> As always, thanks to all those who read this, leave comments and kudos! You are awesome! ♥  
> Sorry if there are any mistakes. I will re-read it tomorrow just in case, but I've got homework to do right now (I shouldn't be writing so much these days, tbh, haha).  
> Enjoy ~
> 
>  
> 
> "Somewhere between happy, and total fucking wreck  
> Feet sometimes on solid ground, sometimes at the edge  
> To spend your waking moments, simply killing time  
> Is to give up on your hopes and dreams, to give up on your...
> 
> Life for you, has been less than kind  
> So take a number, stand in line  
> We've all been sorry, we've all been hurt  
> But how we survive, is what makes us who we are."  
> Survive, Rise Against

Dr Myranda Solvan has been no stranger to the inner workings of the mind, both its horrors and its wonders, for a very long time. Graduated with honours, she quickly climbed positions throughout her youth in a series of prestigious hospitals under the First Order’s direction until being transferred to one of its most important enclaves. Over twenty-five years of extensive experience under her belt mean she has seen nearly everything there is to see in this field, heard testimonies that would rival the wildest imagination, and aided all sort of individuals; especially since she was appointed Chief Psychiatrist at Starkiller Base and has had to put up with an endless assortment of highly unstable officers on a daily basis. Mending shattered minds is what brings meaning and excitement to her everyday life, but sometimes it results exasperating if your own superiors are the ones traumatizing your patients. When the people at the top of the pyramid stands on unsteady feet, madness tends to spread downwards, and let’s say she has had the three members of the triumvirate in her office more than once for a variety of reasons. For fuck’s sake ― she is a psychiatrist, not a kindergarten teacher, as she has kindly pointed out to the General many times.

A timid knock on the door breaks her mental rant, and in you go, looking pitifully lost and much too young with your arms wrapped around yourself protectively, eyeing the place with distrust. The woman has often been told to have an uncanny dexterity at reading people, something certainly useful in her profession, and it barely takes a quick glance to see the treacherous shadows dancing within your mind. There is a terrible burden pushing you down, and she only hopes to help lessen it as much as possible.

She is standing by the desk, examining some sort of document when you walk into the office, a tall willowy woman that looks exactly as you had expected a psychiatrist to look. Pristine elegant clothes, silver hair pulled back in a bun, and a pair of rimless glasses hanging over her chest from a cord around her neck. The room is somewhat small and much warmer than you expected, with tan-coloured walls and chocolate brown furniture that mercifully breaks out of the monochromatic black and white scheme. The woman herself stands out, dressed in pale colours. She gives a quick look over at your frightful appearance with a reassuring smile, gesturing towards the divan.

“Thank you so much for coming, Miss (y/l/n). Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Awkwardly, you comply with her request and lower yourself on the lengthy, armless couch. It’s a bit weird, but you grudgingly admit it’s rather comfy. Silence hangs heavy on the ambience as Dr Solvan finishes whatever she is doing. You can’t stop fiddling with your fingers, with the hem of your shirt, with your hair, barely supressing the impulse to run away ― though you probably wouldn’t make it too far, knowing there is a Stormtrooper stationed outside just in case that precise scenario were to take place.  _Gosh, it’s like they have absolutely no faith in you._  Then again, you have been running away a lot lately.  _No faith at all, really. So appalling_. The woman suddenly appears in your line of sight, taking a seat of the big office chair at the head of the divan and placing the file she was reading on her lap along with some sort of notepad. Clearing her throat, she finally turns to you.

“Hope you don’t mind me taking notes. I can’t believe they didn’t sent you here for a psychological evaluation as soon as you arrived. Such incompetence,” she comments, shaking her head in disbelief. Her voice is soft and oddly soothing even though there's an underlying serious edge that screams professionalism. You can tell she doesn't allow herself to be intimidated by anyone. “No, of course they wait until someone has a breakdown before sending them here to pick up the pieces.”

Oh, she’s got spunk. You like her.

… Well, just a little bit. You are still  _definitely not okay_  with this situation.

She flips the dossier open and puts her glasses on, resting low on the bridge of her nose.

“So, I’ve been informed you have some trouble sleeping, and you’ve also suffered several panic attacks over the last couple of weeks,” she half-reads, half-comments. “You've been feeling apathetic and abnormally tired, found difficulties to leave your quarters and socialize… That’s a long list, but we’ll work our way through it at whatever pace you feel comfortable with.”

“Who… who told you all that?”

“Mr Zarander was kind enough as to provide a report of any unusual behaviour he’s noticed since you started working for him. Unfortunately, we lack an awful lot of information about your background,” she sighs, leaning back on her chair. “Anyhow, what I really want and need here is to hear  _your_  account of the situation. Your thoughts, your feelings, what troubles you. Tell me, (y/n), why have you come see me?”

“Because someone sent a trooper to my rooms this morning to drag me out of bed, literally. But… I don’t really think I need to talk with anyone about my feelings or whatever. I’m just going through a rough patch ― it happens, to everyone.”

She hums to herself. “Let me decide that, alright? Believe me, I know just how frightening this experience is, how discomforting it is to speak with a complete stranger about something so personal, but my only purpose is to help you. And you can call me Myranda, so that we’re not strangers anymore. If we truly achieve nothing on this first month, well, at least you’ll have aired your head ― and I’ll present my most heartfelt apologies along a piece of chocolate cake as peace offering. Deal?”

_Ugh. She’s good._

“… I’ll think about it.”

“Okay, we’ll take it easy. Little by little. Let’s start with, well, the beginning. What can you tell me about your childhood?”

“With all due respect, I don’t know what  _that_  has to do with my… current problems… or anything.”

“In that case, you won’t mind telling me about it,” she eloquently replies, using your own words against your reasoning. You moodily chew on your bottom lip. “Why don’t you tell me something about your family, (y/n)?”

“Why don’t you tell me something about  _your_  family, Myranda?”

She sends you a pointed not-amused-at-all look over the rim of her spectacles and you sigh in defeat.

Reluctantly, you start by describing your home planet in short tentative sentences. It was a quiet place in a previously neutral quadrant of space where nothing exciting or potentially dangerous ever happened. Peaceful and nice. You liked it there, though it must be a grey piece of rock floating around by now _. What about your family, your home?_  Struggling with your voice, you tell her about your grandparents, a lovely couple that took care of you most of the time, which soon leads to talking about your devoted and hard-working mother. She was a nurse, dedicated in body and soul to help people in need. The four of you lived in a little house with a garden where you spent many hours pretending to be a smuggler who wandered the galaxy with a faithful Wookie companion often interpreted by your reluctant grandfather.  _Oh, sorry, I got a bit carried away there_. Then, of course, the psychiatrist wants to know where your father falls in that picture. “Well…” you hesitate. He started working for the Resistance before you even learnt how to stand on your own two feet, and he never was around safe for the rare occasion in which he dropped by to see how everything was going. Your mother brandished that he was helping people and he didn’t want to endanger you both by dragging you into the conflict as argument to justify his continuous absence, but you could tell the belief on her own words diminished more and more as time passed. She wouldn’t allow herself to be selfish even by the simple and ordinary fact of missing her husband, because he was needed elsewhere.  _Something happened, didn’t it?_  Yes, something happened. Something terrible. You were eight years old when the echoes of war reached your planet. No one saw it coming, being a pacifist community, so you were not prepared to defend yourselves nor your homes. After dinner that night, you had been drawing a beautiful postcard for the upcoming sixty-fifth birthday of Nana while you all waited for your mother to return from work when the first screams cut the air of the night, freezing the blood in your veins. Pops had told you to stay behind as he went outside to see what was happening. Everything ensued so fast that the memories are too blurred. The fire spread from house to house, there was a woman screaming and people shooting and smoke and you were crying amidst the chaos. Your father had appeared out of nowhere amidst the pandemonium with a group of rebels. It wasn’t until much later when leaving the planet behind aboard a spaceship that you realized you would never see your grandparents or your mother’s warm smile ever again, nor would you finish that drawing or play in the garden one last time.

Revisiting those memories after all these years makes you feel like that terrified little girl all over again. You hastily wrap your arms around your middle to hide your shaking hands.

“Who attacked your town?”

“I don’t know. The First Order, the Resistance… they were both there ― killing enemies, losing friends. It could have been anyone. Does it even matter who shot first? War is war. The innocent people caught in the middle don’t tend to see good guys and bad guys when running for their lives.”

She looks at you in silence for a few moments, her expression a mixture of mute consternation and empathy, and scribbles something on her notepad before continuing. “So, your father. He took you with him and the rebels?”

“Yes. He didn’t really know what to do with such a young girl under his care, but he could hardly leave me behind, could he? It would have meant abandoning me on a random orphanage.” In hindsight, he probably considered that option several times, but he needed you as much as you needed him to overcome the devastating loss of your mother. Everything you knew and everyone you loved had ceased to exist, except for this man who claimed to be your father yet felt like little more than a stranger. You were an unexpected inconvenience in his hectic lifestyle, but you silently endured and got to know and respect each other not as much as father and daughter, but as persons. “Don’t get me wrong, he loved me dearly, but no matter how brilliant the man was in regards to his work, he literally didn’t know how to handle children. He was disastrous when dealing with anyone that wasn’t an adult, plus he travelled all the time and had a shitload of responsibilities, so he didn’t know what to do with me… It was very awkward, at first, following him on diplomatic missions like a confused puppy, but it became easier when I showed interest on his field of work. Raising a distressed child in the midst of a war was too problematic, but teaching said child everything he knew about something he loved, having a student… that, he could manage.”

“That’s when you developed your appeal toward linguistics, I gather.”

“Well, truth is I always thought I’d follow my mother’s footsteps and study medicine. This wasn’t exactly planned, but I spent a lot of time alone and he had a ridiculously big library, so I read a lot. I read everything I could get my hands on, and he let me tag along on some diplomatic missions, attend meetings if I stood quietly in a corner… I picked up an awful lot of information and became quite adept at some things.”

“Not only languages?”

“A bit of everything, really, when it comes to theory. I’ve been recently told that my humble attempts at playing strategist were more successful than I ever thought, so… yes, perhaps I picked up some useful skills on other fields, too. Not like I’m planning on changing jobs and start working for General Hux, anyway.”

She chuckles softly, wholeheartedly agreeing with you on that account.

“Where is your father now?”

“… Gone.”

 _Just like everyone else_.

Perhaps she has received all the information she intended ― you  _have_  talked more than you thought you would ―, or perhaps she fears adding fuel to the grief that has slowly taken over your expression through the conversation, but she wordlessly declares your talk to be over by taking her glasses off and setting the notepad down on her lap. “I appreciate that you’ve shared all this with me, (y/n). I’d really like to know more on that subject, and discuss the particulars of your arrival here, but… maybe that’s too much for our first session. Well, what do you think? Was it so terrible? You’ve handled it splendidly.”

Truth be told, you will probably never enjoy the idea of exposing your innermost thoughts and feelings to someone whose work consists precisely on picking apart your every word, but you can’t deny your head feels somewhat lighter after talking with her today. It's easier to breathe. “It wasn’t  _very_  terrible. Just… a bit terrible.”

“I think you should come see me at least once a week while these symptoms persist. If anything changes or they worsen, please, tell me. I won’t give you any medication just now, but I do have some homework for you.”

You look at her questioningly.

“I’d like for you to write a diary, recording your thoughts and experiences every day. Don’t feel as if you are directly talking to me when writing, forget about the old doctor and everyone else, just voice your inner concerns.”

…

“No offense, but that sounds incredibly stupid.”

She offers you an almost ridiculously broad smile, as if she didn't heard what you just said. “See you next week, (y/n).”

 

* * *

_Dear Diary / Dr Solvan:_

_This is_ so _stupid. What’s the point of losing my time writing this?_

* * *

_Dear Diary:_

_Still don’t want to write this. Everything’s just fine: the sun is shining, birds are singing, work is boring, and I might steal Hux’s cat if he keeps glaring daggers at me. Ginger weirdo. I haven’t even talked to him once and he already hates me. It doesn’t have any merit if I can’t earn his hatred myself._

* * *

_Dear Diary:_

_Can’t sleep, so I guess I could write something. Either that or stare at the ceiling. Or cook… at three in the morning._

_So, I had a nightmare. Surprise, surprise. About the interrogation room, again. Woke up crying and had to make a run to the bathroom, again._

_Same old. There was a bunch of troopers torturing me, they wanted me to sing some absurd nursery rhyme but I kept reciting the wrong lines, changing them for those of that saucy country song Poe Dameron likes so much. My blood pooled on the floor. It was black. The smell was just too real, like that day. It made me dizzy._

_… I don’t feel better after writing about it. This whole thing is stupid._

_PS. Still thinking how I can get my hands on Hux’s cat._

* * *

_Dear Diary:_

_Thea noticed there’s something weird going on. I haven’t missed work as of late (even though I haven’t slept that well), but she knows I failed to show up two days on a row. Zekk didn’t know what to tell her and she became suspicious, so I had to make up some foolish story about my period coming early and feeling awful these days. Ugh, my lies are the worst. I don’t even know how she bought that. What will I tell her if it happens again? What will I tell when my real period comes? I don’t know why I lied, I should have just told her about Dr Solvan. I’m such a coward._

_She said I should cheer up and go out with her and her friends on the next weekend. But I don’t think that would “cheer me up” at all. Besides, I’m not drinking alcohol ever again. Never, ever, ever._

_Which reminds me… I saw Kylo Ren walking around the command post this morning. I freaked out and threw myself under the desk to avoid being seen, but the chair fell over and I banged my head. Now there’s a painful bump on my forehead and he probably saw me ducking under the desk anyway. As if he needed any more motives to think I’m ridiculous. Not like I care about what he thinks about me. Like, at all._

_Ugh, I need a drink. But I have quit drinking. What a dilemma._

* * *

_Dear Diary:_

_It happened again._

_I don’t know why. It’s silly. I’m being silly. I was dressed up and all, everything seemed to be fine, I even slept all night without trouble and thought I looked quite pretty today… but I couldn’t walk out the door. Well, not really, I actually walked outside, reached the elevators, started crying out of the blue and run back to my quarters to devour the last tub of chocolate ice-cream._

_Daclan told me to take the day off, even though I insisted on working remotely or something. He’s being very patient and understanding… which reminds me I have yet to thank him about the flower. It doesn’t seem to be withering just yet, which is a small consolation._

_Going back to Dr Solvan’s office tomorrow on the afternoon. She’ll see writing this is absolutely pointless. You’ll see._

* * *

 

“The diary serves its purpose just fine, (y/n),” she says as soon as you walk into her office, sending me a warm amused smile. “I’m glad that at least you wrote something. It means more than you think, and it will help us both.”

You grumble incoherently, laying down on the divan once more. Yes, it means that you have completely lose your mind, or at least become as desperate as to fucking  _talk_  with an  _inanimate object_.

“I think we’re making some progress here. For starters, you are dealing with whatever troubles your mind even if you’re not aware of it. Through writing, you are acknowledging it and ordering your ideas. I talked with your boss, and he is more than willing to create a special work schedule for you until everything quietens and you feel yourself capable of going through the week normally.”

You nod, silently.

“Now, down to business.” Glasses on. The true Dr Solvan has arrived. “Tell me, these nightmares… did you have them before?”

“No ― well, I mean, I had nightmares like any normal person, but not like… these.”

“And what can you tell me about them? They usually revolve around your imprisonment or about something else?”

“Not always, but… mostly, yes. I guess you could say that.”

“Who appears in them?”

You squirm uncomfortably, twisting a stray lock of hair between your fingers. “Well, you know, the usual. Troopers, the other prisoners, some rebels I knew, my parents …, other people.”

“Kylo Ren?”

“… Sometimes.” You nervously look the side, then frown at the woman almost accusingly, wondering why she would ask that. “ _Why_?”

“Curiosity, to be honest. I haven’t been thoroughly informed of the specifics of your imprisonment, but I know he was the one to conduct the interrogation, and that it was not a… normal interrogation procedure, which I don't know whether to deem as something good or not, considering Captain Phasma's reputation on that regard. From what you’ve written I’ve gathered you don’t like General Hux, either ― but you don’t dream about him, do you?”

Your face twists into a grimace. “Ugh, no. There was this one time when I dreamt of wearing his greatcoat and hat, and I had this ridiculous moustache attached to my nose. I was sitting in this huge chair, petting an orange cat and laughing manically… someone was pole-dancing, and it was raining glitter… heh, sorry for the rambling, it was just a silly dream. Sorry.”

“You have some, huh, very active imagination there. Congratulations. So, returning to the topic at hand, why Commander Ren? He has been absent from the base for the majority of your stay, yet he has seemingly never left your mind ever since that episode. Why did it affect you so much? It was the ‘interrogation’ on itself? Did he do… something else? Perhaps you have an entirely different reason to hold this grudge on the man?”

“… Because.”

“Because he used the Force to read your thoughts and find the information he wanted? Because ―”

“ _Because_  he looked inside me,” you blurt out through clenched teeth, cutting her off. “He looked inside me, and he saw… everything. That’s wrong.”

“It is. Truly, I can see how protective you're about voicing your personal thoughts and, as far as I’m concerned  _that_  is a serious violation of one’s privacy. Regrettably, there's not much that can be done against someone of his position, and the First Order looks at it as dealing with a prisoner ― which, sadly, is what you were at the time. In any case...”

“No. You don’t understand,” you sob. “He pushed the door open, and I can’t close it anymore. I’m not powerful enough. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard, but I can’t. He saw  _everything_ , he saw how fucked-up I am, he saw the pain, the confusion, the weakness, and he let me  _live_ to deal with it. It’s like he threw me into this unfathomable ocean to see me struggle against the tide pathetically, and sink under the weight, and drown down below in the darkness. Why did he do that? If I was dead like the rest at least this…  _this_  would make sense. It would be over. I  _should_  be dead.”

She speaks softly. “(y/n), do you regret having survived that situation? You're telling me that you feel it was a mistake that your life was spared ― that he did it intentionally  _to make you suffer_?”

“… I don’t know. Maybe? He’s a bad guy.”

“A bad guy,” she repeats, an edge of mild confusion on her voice. “Just a week ago you said there are no good and bad guys in war, that everyone involved in the conflict loses people and takes the lives of others. What’s the difference? What makes you think about  _him_  as an evil person, (y/n)?”

Evil? Well, yes, he is evil by definition. To some point, at least. Morally wrong. He has done unspeakable, horrendous things in the name of the First Order, hurt innocent people, killed countless and terrorized even more. But so have done those at the other side of the line, in a more or less similar manner. Your own abilities have been put to use by both factions. In the end, what differentiates him from your previous colleagues and friends, or from you? Soldiers are trained to kill. First Order soldiers are trained to follow every single instruction without question. Dr Solvan is right, isn’t she? You are being a hypocrite. You pride yourself on this solid set of principles that perceives the world in shades of grey and you cannot help but identify Kylo Ren with the colour black. Perhaps because of his appearance. It’s confusing, and ridiculous, because your direct interactions have been scarce, practically non-existent, even if they have occurred under very peculiar circumstances. In both occasions, he has broken through your mental barriers and learnt more than he should ― even if the second time your own stupidity and two bottles of cheap wine were the ones at fault. He shouldn't even be aware of your existence but, somehow,  _he knows you_. He has seen the darkest worst part of you, your greatest fears and your biggest hopes. And that’s incredibly frightening. But… in spite of everything, beneath his title, that imposing mask and those dark clothes, he is also a man. The reminiscence of his face looking down at you in the dimness of that corridor pushes forward amongst your confusing thoughts before you can’t stop it. You have gone over the details so often, in the middle of the night when you find yourself unable to sleep, that you can see them as clearly as if he was standing in front of you unmasked, tall, dark and domineering. How surprising it felt to comprehend that he was human, after all. There was life, and there were real, palpable emotions, dancing behind those smouldering dark eyes. Such intensity. It spoke of boundless passion. What is his story? What has he been through? Why does he do what he does? What did he saw inside your mind that made him spare you and drag you thought his painful road,  _dammit_?

“… I don’t want to keep talking. I want to go.”

“(y/n), be reasonable. I’m just trying to help you.”

“I cannot be helped. I’m broken. Please, let me go.”

“You are  _not_  broken, (y/n),” she retorts, kind but authoritative, carefully putting emphasis on the negative. “Have you ever spoken to him personally, outside from your first meeting?”

 _Yes_.

“No.”

”Alright… I think this is enough. Sorry if I pushed you too far, but I didn’t think this particular subject would provoke such a strong response. Take some rest, try to occupy your mind, find some enjoyable pastimes… and continue writing your daily happenings, will you? If any problem arises, come see me.”

“… Okay.”

Once alone in her office, Dr Myranda Solvan takes off her glasses and rubs her temples to dissipate the developing headache. This session has been intense, to say the least, and it’s only the second of what she guesses will be a long succession of meetings. Very… enlightening, in a way. Tired eyes read through her disorderly notes, the names and the relations she has scribbled on the paper, and she concludes that she will have to visit Kylo Ren sooner than expected to make some compromising questions and delve further into this matter ― something she is definitely  _not_  looking forward to. It had been entirely unexpected when the intimidating Commander appeared in the medical bay demanding to speak with the best psychiatrist they had, given that he seldom set foot around those parts of the base. Doctors and nurses both fear and resent him because all of the trouble he causes, and because he is the worst patient in the history of the galaxy. But that’s a story for another time. Dr Solvan’s own relationship with the man is tense, to say the least, with all the times he has been forcefully sent there to discuss his anger management issues, or whenever he has been the hand behind others’ mental suffering. That he out of all people would appear asking for ― well, more like  _commanding_  ― help for someone else, oh, that scene had been… interesting. And incredibly exasperating. She will need some lengthy vacation away from this forsaken floating ball of ice when this whole ordeal is ultimately resolved.

 

* * *

_Dear Diary:_

_It’s really late, but I just can’t sleep. There’s too much in my mind._

_Went to work feeling a bit off after seeing Dr Solvan this morning, still thinking about those… startling revelations. But that’s not all. Something happened and I ended up running all the way to my quarters before lunchtime. It’s final ― I’m not leaving this bedroom ever again._

_I was supposed to leave work early, anyway, as apparently I have orders to “take it easy” until told otherwise. I approached Daclan, intending to thank him about everything he’s doing to help me. And… he said he has never been to my quarters, and that he knows nothing about the flower I’m speaking of._

_The ground is crumbling under my feet, and I don’t know what to think anymore._

_He is black. He is evil. He is… I don’t know. He hurt me._

_But he gave me some something white. And beautiful. And pure. And for some reason… I don’t find it entirely unbecoming._

_I can’t possibly be thinking something so foolish._

_Oh, crap, now I’ve started drawing his stupid face. I’ll dump this notebook down the toilet first thing in the morning. Bye bye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally feel like I'm getting somewhere... very slowly.
> 
> I don't think this whole dynamic alternating narrative with first person POV diary entries will re-appear (maybe once or twice more, but not often). It was fun to write, tho.


	7. NOT AN UPDATE - Message from the Author

Hi there!

As you can see, this is not a regular update.

(Sorry.)

 

I just wanted to inform those wonderful people who enjoy reading this story and may be waiting for new chapters that _Darkling I Listen_ will be put in hiatus for a while. I don't know if it will be just one week more, two, a month... I don't really know. The following chapter is halfway written, but no matter how many times I've tried, I can't write or concentrate on this properly.

In the latest chapters I said the reader was beginning to reflect my own state of mind, so you can guess my condition is not exactly optimal at the moment. After struggling with myself for months, not able to understand why I felt like crying most of the time and felt unable to leave the house some days without apparent reason, I forced myself to go see my doctor and I've been diagnosed with anxiety and depression. I had feared as much for some time, but hearing it from a professional is kind of a hard blow, haha.

Anyway, I've already started taking some medication that will help and I'll start seeing a psychologist next week, so I hope everything reverts back to normal soon and I can bring some good news in the next update.

 

I'm truly sorry to disappoint my readers like this, but I hope you understand.

Love you all. ♥


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